You Let Me Believe You Were Dead
by LittleGingerBiscuit
Summary: Just when John is about to lose it completely, Sherlock pays a long-awaited visit to 221B. What hidden feelings will come to light now he's back? Johnlock. For those who want to read a realistic relationship, not just the two of them ravishing each other.
1. It's Sherlock

**I HAD TO DO IT! IT NEEDED TO HAPPEN! Just...John's face when he was at the grave...I needed to get out what I think would happen if he came back! I think I've written the characters as accurately as is humanly possible, so there shouldn't be any problems there...but yeah. Please please PLEASE review. :)**

It's a way I pass my time now. I count. Every number equals one more second I'm not falling apart after everything that's happened. Every number ties in with every tick of the clock.

I sigh and stand up. My shoulders are slumped in defeat as I shuffle over to the mantelpiece and carefully lift up Sherlock's old skull. Underneath, sealed and unopened, is his secret stash of cigarettes. I hated those things, but now I can't help holding them to my chest for just a few moments.

"You selfish bastard," I whisper. "What the hell have you done?"

With a sigh, I replace the cigarettes and move the skull back in to place, facing away so it's not staring at me when I sit back down.

The armchair is cold and uncomfortable, pressing in to my back where I used to be able to sink in to it. The fire is unlit, and even if I'd had the energy to ignite it, I wouldn't have wanted it burning. There's still that yellow smiley-face spray-painted on to the wall, with several bullet holes puncturing the paper around it.

Everything here is Sherlock. From the excessive amounts of paper to the head in the fridge, or the used microscope slides left lying on the kitchen table, it's all Sherlock. When people die, their family and friends say they can feel their presence with them long after they're gone. I wish it were like that with Sherlock. All I can feel is the ever-present hole in my heart that screams _'he's gone'_.

And then…then there's the violin.

I was at such a loss as to what to do with that violin. It's old and battered, far beyond any hope of selling it. Not that I could bring myself to stick it on eBay, anyway. It's old and battered, but it's Sherlock. Just like every single other thing in the apartment, it's Sherlock.

I can feel the hot tears spring to my eyes as I think about him. With his cheekbones, and his curly hair, and that ridiculous coat that nobody else could wear without looking like a total idiot. The way he'd smirk in even the most dire situations, with that sparkle in his eye that hinted he knew something everyone else didn't. And that was always the case, until Moriarty found his weakness. God only knows what that weakness was, but it was found.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes tight shut to keep the tears in. There's no way I can sit here and wallow in my own pity. But to be honest, there's nothing else I can do. I've tried updating the blog countless times, but all that comes out of me is one word. It's not rocket science trying to guess what that word is.

Sighing, I stand up and go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. There's scarcely any food in the apartment since Mrs Hudson's last shopping trip on Wednesday, so I'm left using semi-skimmed milk, which I happen to hate. It tastes weak and watery in my mouth. But I can't complain. Mrs Hudson is grieving too, she's just not going to pieces like me.

I pull open the fridge and examine the contents. There's something I want, but I don't know what it is. I'm pretty sure I could eat through every single item of food in that fridge and still not feel satisfied.

After pulling out a carton of milk, I close the door.

And I almost drop the milk.

I have to brace myself against the worktop and rub my eyes repeatedly before I'm sure I was hallucinating. Because I had been _sure_ I'd seen someone standing in the living room, facing the mantelpiece. Someone tall, in a dark suit…

No.

Sherlock isn't alive. He's not coming back. I'm getting over him. I'm moving on. I'm making tea. I'm finding a mug.

The cupboard where we –_ I_ – keep the china is almost as barren as the fridge, since I always feel motivated to drink tea but never feel motivated to do the washing up. Shame, that. Apart from that minor infraction, the apartment was looking the same as it was before…

No.

After making my cup of tea, I carry it back to the living room with my head down. I'm wearing a cable-knit jumper and jeans, and I haven't yet bothered to take my shoes off from when I went to visit Sherlock's grave this morning.

Something I'm very glad for, when the mug of tea slips from my shaking hands and crashes to the floor. Thank God for the shoes. I've just been saved from some serious burns.

I mutter something incoherent and kneel down to pick up the shards of broken china. A particularly sharp pieces slashes a cut along my palm, and I wince.

"That looked painful," someone murmurs.

I freeze. The china forgotten, my eyes dart up. And I'm sure my heart stops, at least for a second.

There, lying stretched out on the sofa with three nicotine patches stuck to his arm, eyes closed and hands pressed in a prayer-like position in front of his face, is my best friend. There, calm as you like, is Sherlock.

"John." He nods to me in acknowledgement.

Stunned, I stand up and go to sink in to the armchair opposite the sofa. Suddenly, it's lost all its uncomfortable traits. It's a haven all over again. There's no question why. "Sherlock," I say, just as evenly.

We sit – or lie, in Sherlock's case – in silence for a few agonizingly slow minutes. Then, when I can't take it any more, I explode.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" I bellow, picking up the closest thing to hand – a leather bound book – and throwing it with precise aim at Sherlock's head.

He doesn't flinch, only sits up and regards me with none of the concern that I'm currently bottling up.

"I was thinking I would have been buried with a key," he says, patting down his pockets. "Why don't I have a key, John?"

I can only stare at him. "Hang on," I say, taking a deep breath to calm myself. "You've just waltzed back in here after _jumping off a building_, and you're worried you don't have a key anymore?"

Sherlock only shrugs. "I wouldn't say I waltzed," he murmurs. "I ghosted, really. Incredibly apt." He stands up and starts pacing backwards and forwards.

"How are you even here?" I stammer, twisting round to face him. For some reason, it's unnerving to have a man whom I believed to be dead walking freely behind me.

He stops and looks at me. "Borrowed a key off Molly. Actually, since we're raising that issue – why _did_ you give her a key?"

"This isn't about the key, Sherlock!" I snap. I'm not sure what to feel. Relief? Anger? Annoyance? Irritation? It seems as if most of them are negative, even though I should be so happy.

Sherlock sighs and sits down, drumming his fingers impatiently on his knee. "I can smell tea," he murmurs. "Yes, you made tea. Any more left? I could die for some tea. Sorry, bad timing for that joke. But I want tea. John?"

I'm still gaping at him, open-mouthed. "Forget it," I say eventually, leaning back in my chair. "You're not having anything until you tell me what happened!"

He regards me evenly, his eyes narrowed slightly. "You were worried about me," he says. "You missed me."

"Enough with the deduction, Sherlock," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose in impatience. "Save it. I just want to know…what happened."

Sherlock sighs. "We should go back to my motives, then," he says. "Moriarty, with several of his friends."

I frown. "You've never been bothered by him before," I say. Then, in amendment, "ok, maybe that's not completely true. But Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I didn't think he'd drive you to commit _suicide_."

"Friends with guns, John," Sherlock emphasises. "I suppose you failed to notice the one trained on you."

My face falls. My blood runs cold.

"Our parting phone conversation? All the while there was a man poised ready to kill you. And another to kill Mrs Hudson, if I didn't jump."

There's a long pause before I manage to say anything. "Are you serious?" is all I can get out.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Do you think I would lie about this, John?"

So many questions are flooding through my mind like a tidal wave. "How did you do it?" I ask.

A smirk pulls the corners of his lips up. "A remarkable trick involving a rubber ball under my arm to momentarily stop my pulse, and several cleverly disguised neck braces to soften the impact of the ground. Any damage done was cured as soon as I fell. So helpful of Jim to choose a _hospital_ as the site of my death." He scoffs. "And he said _I_ was ordinary."

I'm still shell-shocked. "You let me believe you were dead," I say. My voice is very quiet, and deadly. "There is a grave marked with your name that I've visited _every single day…"_

"Every day?" Sherlock's voice cuts me off mid-rant.

I swallow hard. "With Mrs Hudson, and the others…"

Sherlock laces his hands together beneath his chin. "Every day. Hm."

I sigh. "You're alive," I say simply, picking up a newspaper off the coffee table and unfolding it. It's as if the entire apartment is now flooded with colour and light, and I've suddenly found a refined interest in normalcy again. "I can't think of anything else to say about it, for now anyway."

Sherlock settles back against the sofa and watches me as I flick through the paper. "Tackled the media yet?" he asks after a while.

I don't look up. "What?"

"The papers. What they're saying about 'bachelor John Watson'."

"Oh," I say, turning another page nonchalantly. "Not yet."

"Can't be bothered, or is there another reason?" Sherlock asks, persistent.

I look up, and my eyes meet his. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs delicately. "I was simply wondering if there was any truth in it."

**I just had to slip that last little part in there. Who doesn't love some Johnlock? So, big question: should I continue with this story? I was originally planning for it to stay a one-chapter-wonder, but now I'm thinking maybe I should expand on it? If I did, there would be more John/Sherlock romance for sure. No, not BROmance, pure romance. So...should I? Please leave a nice long review.**

**Amy xxx**


	2. Bachelor John Watson

**So can I just say a HUGE thank-you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - reviews are love, people :) For some reason, I've been contemplating a few things.**

**1 - I enjoy writing this story so much.**

**2 - Wouldn't it be the bestest thing ever if Benedict Cumberbatch and/or Martin Freeman read it? (Not that I'm holding out any hopes it will happen, of course)**

**3 - I am, no question about it, going to continue with this story.**

**4 - Romance will ensue in chapter 3. **

**On with the brilliance! **

We sit staring at each other in silence for a few moments. I'm not sure how to respond to his question. Any truth in what? I'm a bachelor, in the way that I'm single and available for a relationship. What he's wrong about is the assumption I'm interested in a relationship with another _man_.

"Well," he says finally, rolling off the sofa and stretching his long arms out in front of him. "I said I wanted tea about five minutes ago, and look – no tea."

I shake my head, still unable to say anything. I've lost my chance anyway.

He saunters in to the kitchen and begins opening and closing cupboards rapidly, not taking anything out or even turning on the kettle, which would be a good start. A box of PG Tips teabags sits open on the unit, but he appears not to notice them. Sometimes I wonder if he even wants anything to drink, or if he just wants to play at normalcy by bustling about in a kitchen.

Eventually, I managed to find my voice. "Did you just call me_ gay_?"

Sherlock's eyes flash towards me. "Did I?"

I frown. "_Yes_, you did. I…I'm not gay, Sherlock."

"I don't think I ever implied that," Sherlock says, selecting a packet of biscuits with a use-by date of last month and ripping it open.

"But you…"

"I asked if you'd tackled the media on their bachelor expose, and then questioned if there was any truth behind it. I didn't, however, specify if you were a straight or homosexual bachelor. So my conscience is clear."

I roll my eyes and look down at my newspaper. "What conscience?" I mutter.

When Sherlock returns to his seat, he's lost his suit jacket and his dark purple shirt has one button undone.

I can't resist commenting. "You're the one dressing camp."

He looks down at himself with minimal interest. "What's wrong with the way I dress?"

I smirk.

Sherlock just shrugs. "Perhaps I should borrow one of your cardigans."

"You know where they are," I mutter, turning the page of the newspaper.

I thought I was joking, until he exits the room and comes back in wrapped up in one of my cable-knit cardigans. He's tugging on the sleeves critically.

When he catches me looking at him, he flaps his arms about wildly. "They hang down over my hands, John. How am I supposed to text if there are sleeves hanging around my hands?"

"Push them up," I tell him. I'm starting to get thirsty, but I'm not sure I trust myself to walk. The entire concept of having a supposedly dead man wearing my clothes is overwhelming to say the least.

"Ridiculous," he muttered, swishing his arms around so the sleeves flap. It doesn't make any sense, since his arms are a fair bit longer than mine, but he doesn't seem in the mood for logic.

This is how it should be. The two of us, in 221B, in our little flat. With Sherlock being the absentminded, brilliant human being he's always been and me being there to settle him down during his mad times.

Then what feels wrong?

"Have you told Mycroft yet?" I ask, swallowing hard to distract myself from the nagging feeling at the back of my mind.

Sherlock looks up. "Hm?"

"About the fact you're now…alive," I say. "Don't you think he'd like to know?"

"Oh, he does," Sherlock says, waving off my concern. The cardigan sleeves flitter in the breeze.

I can actually feel my jaw drop. "Hang on – Mycroft knows you didn't die?"

"Of course," says Sherlock, frowning and falling in to the sofa. "Who do you think got me access to the roof?"

The next time I try and speak, all that comes out is incoherent stuttering. "M-Molly?"

"Helped me with the rubber ball trick."

"Lestrade?"

"Media coverage."

"Mrs Hudson?"

Sherlock grins. "You didn't think I'd leave my landlady out of this, did you?"

I'm too stunned to speak for a few moments. My voice comes out very quiet and calm when I next attempt to talk. "I'm your partner, Sherlock," I say. "Your…assistant. Whatever you want to call whatever _this_ is, I'm still your…friend." I sigh. "You should have told me."

"But I didn't," he says. "You had to believe I was dead."

I shake my head and rub my temples in exasperation. He's giving me a splitting headache.

"And I have another case."

Those five words again shock me in to silence.

"We're meeting with Lestrade this morning for tea," he says, standing up. "And I'll wear the cardigan, if you don't mind."

I'm too dazed to do anything but follow him to the door.

However, just before we step out in to the hallway, I find my voice and call him back. "Sherlock?"

He turns. "Yes?"

I punch him. It's a hard hit, right in his jaw, and forceful enough to have him stumble back in to the wall.

"What was that for?" he asks, opening and closing his mouth and wincing.

"For letting me believe you were dead." I grab my coat from the back of a chair and shrug it on over my jumper. "Don't bleed on my cardigan."

**Hehe :) I love Johnlock. I'm calling them that now. Johnlock. Just sounds very cute. So yeah, reviews are VERY welcome (seriously guys, don't hold back), and there will be another chapter posted very soon (probably tomorrow - UK time). Can I just say, I'm very very proud to be English when I watch Sherlock. Best of British :)**

**Amy xxx**


	3. The ringtone

**Hey everyone :) I'm sorry I didn't post yesterday like I said I would, but for some reason this chapter just didn't want to take shape. Also there was a little fiasco where my mum walked in on me writing an in-depth paragraph about Sherlock's cheekbones, so I had to try and explain it was just for a story...anyway. I know I said there would be ensuing romance in this chapter, but I didn't want to rush things, so there's only the teeniest hint of it, at the end. Enjoy :)**

My first thoughts towards Lestrade are acidic. As we walk through the door in to his apartment, I glare at him. He's not Sherlock's partner – I am. How was he allowed the luxury of knowing he was alive while I was slowly becoming sadder and sadder…

"John." He claps me on the back as he closes the door behind us. "Good to see you two back together."

"Yeah," I mutter. "Shame it hasn't happened sooner."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and picks up a photo frame off the mantelpiece, back to his intruding self. "I told him you knew I didn't die. He's vengeful towards almost everyone now."

I make a sound of exasperation and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Exactly how many people _did_ you tell, Sherlock?"

He shrugs delicately and shakes his head. I hate it when he does that. "Does it matter? Won't be long before everyone knows."

_Yes, but I had to wait!_ I want to scream at him and throw something else heavy at his head, but I can't find the energy. Instead I sink in to an armchair and accept the offer of tea.

"Molly's not here yet," Lestrade calls from the kitchen. "She's got something to finish up at the hospital."

"Autopsy," mutters Sherlock. "Mrs Cambrooke."

I blink. "How the…"

"I've been idle for too long, Lestrade," Sherlock declares, starting to pace back and forth on the worn shag rug.

"Calm down," Lestrade mutters, plucking a teabag from a jar and dropping it in to a china mug emblazoned with the royal crest. "You've got the case now."

Sherlock huffs and drops in to the chair opposite me. He's drumming his fingers against everything he touches, be it his knee or the arm of the chair – a sign he's getting impatient and bored. Last time he was bored, he shot a wall. "Not soon enough…"

I lean forward and lower my voice. "Who _didn't_ you tell, before me?"

He grimaces. "Anderson and Donovan. Devils in lab coats, the both of them." The drumming got faster.

"I have never seen Donovan wearing a lab coat," says Lestrade, coming back in to the room with a mug of steaming tea. He holds it out to me, and I all but snatch it out of his grasp.

Before Sherlock or I can respond, the door bangs open and a whirlwind of perfume and caramel hair stumbles in to the room.

Lestrade looks up. "Ah, Molly."

"I'm…sorry…" she pants, dropping her bag by the door and throwing her keys on to a nearby sideboard. "There was…a tube…delay…"

"Sit down, Molly, no one has time for a story," Sherlock murmurs, gesturing to the seat next to me with a long, pale hand. At some point during the conversation he's ducked his head down so his chin is partially concealed by his coat collar; there are the cheekbones.

I have half a mind to reach over and take the coat off him completely, but I settle for pulling on my own collar to remind him not to turn his up. When Molly collapses in to the chair, I hold my mug of tea out to her.

She takes it and cups it in her hands, shooting me a grateful smile before gulping down two mouthfuls. It must burn her throat, considering it was piping hot just two minutes ago, but if it does she doesn't show it.

"So," Lestrade says, leaning against a wall and crossing his arms. "What do you plan to do about the case?"

I look up. "What case?"

"The case, John!" says Sherlock, throwing up his hands. "The case Lestrade found for me."

"Your comeback case," Lestrade says, smirking. I still want to hit him.

Sherlock looks at him evenly and nods slowly. "My…comeback case."

"Um…Sherlock?" Molly says timidly, raising her eyes to look at him through her eyelashes. I silently beg Sherlock not to say anything mean to her.

"Yes?" Sherlock frowns.

"There was something wrong with the body I looked at today," she says. "Something I think you might have seen before."

He leans back and lets his head fall against the sofa. "Are you going to tell me what it is?"

Molly nods and takes another gulp of tea. I doubt there'll be any left by the time she's done with it, but I don't really care. "A…a pink phone."

"Many women in England have pink phones, Molly." Sherlock seems uninterested, but at least he didn't snap at her.

"Yeah, but…it rang." Molly sets the now empty mug down on a side table and laces her hands together nervously.

"You're wasting my time, Molly," Sherlock says. And there it is. One little degrading remark to make her feel that bit worse about herself. Thanks, Sherlock.

A tiny crease appears between Molly's eyebrows. "Do you remember at Christmas time, when you kissed my cheek?"

Sherlock sighs. "I was wondering how long it would take you to recall that event."

"Well, just after you did, there was a noise. Remember? You said it was your ringtone…"

Lestrade scoffs. "The woman's orgasm sound?"

I choke.

"You know what I mean," he says.

Molly's blushing now. "Well, the phone made that sound when it rang. It was in an evidence bag – I didn't check the text." Her wide brown eyes dart around to glance at everyone. We're all staring at her. "But…Mrs Cambrooke was fifty-three. What would she be doing with…The Woman?"

"What indeed?" murmured Sherlock. His eyes were heavy lidded – now they flashed up to look at Lestrade. Somehow, my resentment of the inspector has been replaced by something stronger – a hatred of Irene Adler. "Lestrade, what case did you have for me?"

Lestrade looks momentarily baffled. "Well, Mrs Cambrooke's murder, actually. But…"

"I'll take the case," he says. "But I'll need some time to think. John, we're leaving."

I frown, but don't question him. "Alright," I say, rising to my feet and heading for the door to fetch my coat.

However, someone stops me. A hand slips in to mine and squeezes lightly, then it's gone. I look up in confusion, expecting to see Molly being comforting or sympathetic, but she's standing with Lestrade talking in hushed voices.

The only person within arm's length of me is Sherlock, sitting on the sofa. He gives me a half-smile then goes back to staring blankly at the wall.

**Ok I PROMISE, next chapter will contain some Johnlock romance! Promise. If I don't post something...may Moriarty come back from the grave and place a bomb in my jumper :) So yeah, please please PLEASE review, and I'll put another chapter up super soon.**

**Amy xxx**


	4. Simple enough

**Hey :) Really sorry I haven't updated in a while - there was a little problem involving 6 certain pieces of failed algebra homework and a week-long laptop ban, but...yeah. I'm back now. This was originally going to be two chapters, but I thought they'd be too short if I separated them, so I merged them together. Enjoy :)**

I settle in to my chair as soon as we get back to 221B. It's the kind of chair you miss if you're away from it for too long. Comfy, with a soft back you can sink in to and shape until it's just right. And not that the fire is ever lit, but if it was I'd be toasty warm.

Sherlock, however, is more restless. He paces back and forth and mumbles incoherently to his skull and drums his fingers against every flat surface within reach, including the back of my chair, which is unbelievably distracting while I'm trying to read the paper.

"Sherlock, would you…"

He moves his hand and starts drumming on my shoulder instead.

"Sherlock!"

The detective makes a sound of exasperation and throws himself down in to the chair opposite mine. "I'm bored, John," he mutters, his eyes darting around. I know what he's looking for – something to deduce. Something to pick apart until he knows it like the back of his hand. "You know how I get when I'm bored."

I sigh and flip the newspaper down so I can see him. "I'm sorry if coming back to life is such a chore for you."

His green-blue eyes flash as he stares at me. "I was never really dead, John." His voice is surprisingly calm.

"No, of course not, you were just faking it," I mutter.

Now his voice is hard and firm. "It's not important now, John."

"Oh, no!" I say, throwing the newspaper aside completely and standing up. He rises too, but for once I'm not intimidated by his height. I'm on a short fuse, and he just lit the wick. Now I've started, I can't stop. "Of course it's not important, Sherlock. Any fool can fake his own death. Can disappear for months with no trace whatsoever. It just transpires that you are that fool!"

He narrows his eyes at me. "You're angry," he murmurs.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm angry!" I seethe, clenching and unclenching my hands at my sides.

He takes a single step closer to me, but I barely notice it. I'm breathing heavily, well on the verge of punching him again. "Would you say you're also jealous?"

I pause. "What?"

Sherlock throws up his hands in exasperation. "Jealously, John! It's an emotion! I know I'm not much good at those…"

"Why would I be jealous?" I ask, cutting him off before he has a chance to finish.

He looks at me. I have to be imagining that his pupils are dilated, and that he swallows abnormally hard…

"Well when Molly told us about Adler, you were the only one with nothing to say."

I shake my head. Am I really hearing this. _Really?_ "And Lestrade's contribution was sufficient, was it?"

"At least he said something." Sherlock crosses his arms and pouts childishly.

"He made a comment about the woman's ringtone!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I think you're missing the point, John."

"Oh yeah? And what _is_ the point?" I shift my weight to my other leg, fold my arms, and wait for him to say something.

But he doesn't speak. Instead he leans in and kisses me very quickly, the pressure of his lops warm and firm against mine. He keeps his hands by his sides, though perhaps one is slightly raised as if he wants to touch my arm but isn't sure if he should.

I contemplate pushing him away and severing the contact, but truth be told I'm finding it very hard to move.

It's over in a matter of seconds, anyway. By the time I've mulled over different scenarios in my head, he's broken away and now stands scanning my face with his eyes.

What I want to say is something intelligent and witty, but all that actually comes out of my mouth is an incoherent stutter. "Sh-sher-sherr…."

"You sound like you're shivering," he observes. "But it's boiling hot in here."

I try to hide the fact I've found a blatantly obvious innuendo behind that sentence.

While he goes and opens the window a crack, I sit down on the arm of my chair and grip the sides tightly until my nails dig in.

What on _Earth_ just happened? One minute I'd been positively screaming at him and the next he was _kissing_ me?

I suppose I'm not even confused about that part – after all, it was simple enough – so much as I'm confused about what I'm feeling right now."

"Simple enough, John?" Sherlock mutters, and I realise in absolute horror that I've been mumbling my thoughts out loud, the way he does when he's got a case. "I would call that simple, but I suppose you're entitled to your own opinion."

I swallow hard but keep my eyes cast down, refusing to meet his. "Sherlock," I manage at normal volume. "What _was_ that?"

For a split second the poor man looks stunned, and I can't help but feel sorry for him. Standing there in his suit, with his curly hair and, yes, the cheekbones, there's an air of childlike innocence about him. He fixes me with his green-blue eyes, which seem to be wider than usual.

I have a nagging urge to go and hold him, the way you hold a child after a pet's died or they've hurt themselves playing outside. He just looks so…vulnerable. It's a way I've never seen him before, a side he's covered well.

But thinking about what good a hug would do us both is not going to get me anywhere.

"What was what?" he asks, clasping and unclasping his hands nervously in front of him.

I can only stare at him. "You kissed me," I say bluntly.

"Oh." He moves his gaze down to the floor, as if he's fascinated by the carpet. "Yes, I did."

Now I'm really stuck for things to say. How do I respond to something like _that?_ '_Oh, yeah, you did kiss me…well, I'm off to the newsagents. Cheerio!'_ No. That would in no way suffice for what I have to say, which is a hell of a lot.

I can see Sherlock is getting slightly more uncomfortable as the time passes, too. He picks up his violin bow and runs his fingers over the horsehair band. Then he scatters the resin dust on to the windowsill. Then he says the thing I know he finds it hardest to say. "I…I'm sorry, John. You'll have to forgive me."

I _really_ don't know what to say. Part of me wants to resume screaming in his face, part of me wants to resume punching his face, but part of me wants to…well, part of me wants to try what happened again. Just to try it out. I don't know.

At a loss for anything else to do, I simply nod, clear my throat, and say, "Ok." Then I make for the door that leads to my room. For some reason I'm reminded of the first day I ever met Sherlock Holmes, and Mrs Hudson asked if we'd be needing two bedrooms. And it had seemed like _such_ a stupid question at the time.

Sherlock lifts his violin to his chin and starts playing. It is, like all his songs, completely intriguing and annoyingly mesmerising.

On my way past, I make a split-second decision to lean in and kiss his cheek. I don't know why I do it, but it happens.

He pauses playing while I clear my throat, and I can tell he's waiting for me to do something. Or say something. Or…both.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," I say. Then I lope off I to my bedroom without another word.

**Was it ok? I was really uneasy about writing their first kiss, because I know a lot of people don't want it to happen at all, but there are also a lot of people who want them to have some wild passionate love affair, so I decided to play it safe and not make too much of a big deal about it. So yeah. Hopefully it was tastefully done, and I haven't just lost a bunch of readers. Also, just a quick plea - it's really nice to see you all favouriting my story and putting it on alert and stuff, but I do love reviews. So if you can review, then...that would be great :) Even if it's just a one-liner, it's still motivation. **

**Amy xxx**


	5. An old friend

**Hey everyone :D Thought it was time to update this story. By the way, in case anyone noticed and wasn't sure: in the previous chapter, something John says is actually a line from Martin Freeman's movie 'Nativity', where he's yelling at Mr Poppy for being irresponsible. I just changed the words a bit so they would fit the situation. I'm such a kid for liking that film, but it's really funny :D He's brilliant in it. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!**

Breakfast the next morning is no less awkward. Sherlock sits in his armchair and wastes his time yelling at the TV. I sit at the dining table and mournfully chew a bowl of dry shredded wheat. We're out of milk. Again.

"No!" Sherlock exclaims, jolting me out of my slump and causing me to scatter wheat squares everywhere. "No, you're _wrong_!"

By this point I'm forced to break my silence and say something. "Sherlock," I say patiently, scooping up the fallen cereal, "you're watching the news. How can you argue with the news?"

He folds his arms and scowls at the screen. "They got the weather wrong," he mutters. "It's going to rain later."

I sigh and take the remote, muting the TV. "Don't you have case stuff to be working on?"

Sherlock looks up at me with one eyebrow raised. It has a strange and almost undesired effect on my stomach. Well, it could just be the dry breakfast… "You're not my mother, and I'm not five," he says. "I'll work on the case when I want to work on the case, and not before."

I don't bother standing and arguing with him any longer. Whether he wants to argue with the BBC about the rain, or take a look at the papers Lestrade left him, it's not my business. I have important things to be doing myself. For example, my blog hasn't been updated since Sherlock died. Or didn't die.

My laptop is hanging from a piece of string from the ceiling, coated in some sort of clear petroleum jelly, like the stuff they make lip-balm out of. Unbelievable. Sherlock's been back here all of three days, and already he resumes the destruction and misuse of my personal items.

"Sherlock?" I call. "Is there a reason for this?" I don't want to risk touching the jelly, so I just gesture to it pointedly.

He doesn't turn to look at me, only tilts his head back so his voice is audible. "It's just an experiment," he assures. "There are gloves in the breadbin if you want to get it down."

With an exasperated sigh that turns in to a cough as I inhale the jelly fumes, I spin on my heel and stalk off towards the kitchen. Gloves in the breadbin. Gooey substances on my laptop. It's literally like he never left.

And there they are. When I pull the lid off the breadbin, I immediately see a pair of clear latex gloves draped over half a loaf of bread. I don't even stop to ask Sherlock why the hell they're in there – I'm more interested in getting my laptop down before any permanent damage occurs.

Sherlock is now muttering furiously under his breath about the stupidity of old Blackadder reruns. I've discovered in my time as his friend that he hates Rowan Atkinson with a passion – something I cannot personally understand. I've since then hidden my Mr Bean box set out of fear he'll burn it if he finds it.

I grimace as I slip on the rubbery gloves and ease my laptop out through the tight knot of string. Out of the both of us, Sherlock is by far the best at knot-tying, something I find quite demeaning considering I was in the army for six years.

The jelly stuff is all over my laptop – inside the battery compartment, smeared on the screen, dried in between the keys.

"Sherlock, what on earth is this stuff?" I ask.

He appears not to hear me.

When the thing is finally clean, I strip off the gloves and throw them in to a corner of the room. If Mrs Hudson doesn't find them later, Sherlock will, and he'll most likely use them as part of some other experiment.

Mercifully, my laptop doesn't take too long to stutter in to life. Strange – I'd been sure that jelly would have at least some effect on the way it worked. Obviously not. Hm.

When the home screen flashed up, I open up a browser and log in to my blog. Yes, there it is. The final entry about the final problem. Except it isn't the final problem, not anymore.

I click on 'new text entry' and sit watching the cursor blinking at me in the box. What do I write?

"Sherlock?" I call, inquisitive.

"Yes?"

I rub my chin in thought. "What should I put on my blog?"

That must throw him for a while, because he's silent for once. I can still hear Blackadder in the background, but no sound comes out of Sherlock's mouth. God, it's been a while since I've had complete quiet while he's in the room. It's a rare and precious thing.

He jumps up out of his chair and glides over to the sofa where I'm sitting, then leans over the back to get a look at my laptop.

"There's a smear on the screen," he observes.

I'm pretty sure my eye twitches with barely contained rage. "Because, Sherlock," I say, eerily calm, "you drowned it in petroleum jelly. Now either help me with the blog or go and sit back down."

He ponders the matter for a while, then leans over my shoulder and elbows my hands off the keyboard. His replace mine, and his long, pale fingers travel swiftly over the keys.

Within seconds, a one-line entry is typed in to the text box. '_I saw an old friend today'. _

"Will that suffice?" he asks, sounding bored.

I nod, and click the 'submit' icon below the text box. The next screen to flash up is my blog again.

"Hit counter still stuck?"

I nod again. "Stayed the same for ages. Maybe people stopped reading, after your little suicide stunt. You know, just my blog without the thrilling crime stories isn't exactly prime entertainment." I look up at him.

And I'm surprised to see he's frowning slightly. The skin between his eyebrows is pinched, and his eyes look confused. Confused and…sort of sad.

"People read it for what you put, too," he counters.

I roll my eyes. "Not really."

Sherlock doesn't say anything else. Instead he goes and sits back down in his chair, pulling Lestrade's case files on to his lap and leafing through them grimly.

That's the funny thing with Sherlock. You never know if you've offended him, or if he wants to be left alone for a case, or if he's on the verge of a mental breakthrough.

With a sigh, I check the comments box (empty, in case anyone was wondering), then close the screen down.

Just as I do, a noise like a ticking clock echoes throughout the flat. Except it can't be the clock, since Sherlock shot it months ago.

A slow smile spreads over the detective's face. "I told them it would rain," he says.

More drops fall. And then, without really realising it, we're in the middle of a torrential downpour.

**Ok, I know there's not much romance going on, but I promise there will be soon. I mean, they're stuck inside during a freak rainstorm. What do you think is going to happen? Baking cupcakes? Stay tuned to find out.**

**Please review!**

**Amy xxx**


	6. A downpour

**I promised romance, so romance there shall be. Elementary, my dear readers. Just bare with me to the end, and you won't be disappointed :)**

I sigh. This is all I need. And I'm supposed to be going on a date later. I can't be dealing with a flood right now.

"Damn it," I mutter, going to the kitchen and flipping the kettle on angrily. The flat suddenly got five degrees colder, I swear.

From his armchair, Sherlock groans. "I'm bored," he mumbles, turning so his face is buried in a cushion.

"Get on with some case work," I suggest.

"I can't," he says. "I'm hungry."

I glance at the clock. It's still breakfast time, to be fair. Verging on brunch, but that's only for fancy people who don't think three meals a day suffices. "I'll make toast," I say, opening up the bread bin again. Then, on second thoughts, I close it. "Except you put gloves in there," I mutter.

"Is there stuff for pancakes?" he asks. "I want pancakes."

I turn and lean against the unit. "We're out of milk, Sherlock," I say. "We're always out of milk."

He folds his arms in a sulk. "I'll have cereal, then," he mutters.

I shake my head and turn back around. "Forget it, I'm making something else."

But what else can I make? The cupboards are practically empty, as is the fridge. There's only so much I can do with what little we have. All I can find that's in date is a bag of plain flour, and a little glass tube of salt.

"Hey," I say, preoccupied by reading the back of my flour. "Sherlock?"

His voice is still muffled by the cushion. "Yes?"

"Have you ever made bread before?"

There's a long silence, and he looks up. His curls are messed up from the static on the fabric, hanging in his eyes. It's strangely adorable. I want to kick myself in the groin for thinking it.

"I've done a study on the effects of neon when injected in to…"

"Never mind then," I say, rolling my eyes and setting the flour down. A set of old scales sits on the unit a few feet away; I draw it closer and blow off a cloud of dust. Yeah, they should work.

Sherlock, frowning at the idea of domestic normalcy, rolls off the chair and pads through to the kitchen. He's still wearing his blue dressing gown, open over a white shirt and suit trousers. His feet are bare, too. I feel very middle-aged, wearing a jumper and jeans. Except I'm not. Middle-aged, I mean. I'm not middle-aged.

"You're going to try and make bread?" he asks, sounding confused.

I nod, setting about ripping open the packet of flour.

"But that makes no sense," he continues. "Why would you make bread when you can go and get it pre-sliced from the shop?"

I take a deep breath. "Because, Sherlock," I say slowly, trying my best to keep calm, "it's chucking it down outside. If you want to go and get shop bread, nobody's stopping you. Just take an umbrella."

He huffs and moves off to make himself a cup of tea. Yes, we're out of milk, but Sherlock drinks it black anyway.

As he's doing that, I dump out a loud of flour on to the scales and bend over to read the number on the dial. It's a little over the right amount, but I don't really think it matters.

I sigh when it comes to measuring out the right amount of hot water. "I should _really _ask Mrs Hudson about this," I say.

"Can't," mutters Sherlock. "She went out to bingo an hour ago – she won't be able to get back if the roads are flooded."

"God," I groan, spinning away from the mess of flour and striding over to the phone. "I should call her."

"You know she doesn't have a mobile," says Sherlock matter-of-factly, peering in to the mixing bowl.

With a sigh, I set the landline back down and make my way back to the kitchen. I can do this. It's just bread. I've fought of murderers before – I think I can handle basic culinary skills.

Taking a plastic measuring jug out of the cabinet to my right, I fill it with warm water from the tap and pour it in with the flour.

"Have we got a recipe book anywhere?" I ask Sherlock. "I don't know if I should stir this or whisk it."

Sherlock looks around him with minimal interest, sipping his tea. "No," he says.

I sigh exasperatedly. "Well can't you look it up online?"

He frowns slightly. "Why can't you?"

I hold up my hands for his inspection. They're covered in bright white flour, dusted under my fingernails and in the creases of my palms.

"We have a tea-towel," he says evenly.

I grit my teeth and grab the cloth off the oven door handle, angrily wiping the flour off my hands. Then I go over and pull up a search engine to Google the recipe.

"Is it going to take long?" Sherlock wonders, again looking at the bowl and prodding the mixture with the end of a wooden spoon. "I'm starving."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" I explode, clenching my hands in to fists. "Just give me a bloody _minute_."

He raises an eyebrow but says nothing more.

I find a recipe off the BBC's website and scan through it quickly with a heavy heart.

"So…do you stir it or whisk it?" asks Sherlock.

I stand up and square my shoulders. "Neither," I say. "You knead it."

Another one of his eyebrows goes up. "What?"

"Kneading," I say. "With your fists, you know?"

Sherlock inspects the sludge in the bowl. "You're going to try and punch that in to dough?"

I sigh. "It's not trying if I get it right, is it?"

I advance on the bowl and, without another word, tip the thing upside down to the messy contents spill out on to the work surface.

Sherlock makes a face at it.

I ignore him and dig my hands in to the mixture, clenching and unclenching my fists to work it in to a slimy dough.

I can tell you now – it's hard work. By the end of it, my upper arms were aching and I felt like I needed a long, cold drink. However, no matter how painful the effort had been, I was left with a lump of authentic-looking dough.

"What next?" I wonder aloud.

Sherlock, who had been sitting at the table peering intently in to a microscope, now looks up. "Hm?"

I look from the pile of dough to Sherlock, then back again. "The recipe," I say. "What comes next?"

He frowns. "How would I know?"

I grit my teeth. "The laptop," I hiss. My hands are covered in the sticky substance – there's no way I'm spending time cleaning it all off if there's a chance I'll have to get them messy again.

With a grumble, Sherlock pulls the laptop towards him and looks at the screen with his fingertips pressed together under his chin. "It says you have to put it in a baking tray and leave it to rise for an hour." When he's done reading, he looks around at me. "That won't be done in time for breakfast."

I could honestly hit him again. "Then it'll be for lunch," I say, irritated beyond belief.

He goes back to his microscope, and I find a tray to move the dough to. Then I cover it with a clean tea-towel and go to take a seat opposite Sherlock.

After a few moments of silence, he looks up and says, "your hands are still covered in dough."

I look down and realise he's right. "Hell, it's starting to dry." It was like plaster cast.

Sherlock sighs and stands up. "Come here," he says, dumping a bunch of paperwork on the floor and pulling out the chair next to him.

Warily, I go and sit down as instructed. "Ok, but for God's sake, Sherlock – don't try and burn it off or whatever…"

I trail off. He's taken one of my hands in his own, and turned it over so he can see my palm.

"I'm not going to burn it off," he says. Dropping my hand, he stands up abruptly and goes to the sink. Keeping his back turned to me, he dips a cloth in the warm water in the basin then comes and sits back down.

"Hand," he says.

I hold my hand out to him again, and he sets to work cleaning off the dough. The water is warm and it's nice to have the dry mixture off my skin, but all I can do is stare at Sherlock. He's _never_ usually like this – even when Molly came in with a broken ankle and couldn't reach the top shelf of the filing cabinet in the morgue, the most he did was advise her to get some help.

I suppose I'm almost expecting what happens next.

When he finishes, he goes and puts the cloth back in the sink. I stand up too, and pull down my jumper self-consciously. Not sure why. I just do.

He turns around, and the corner of his mouth quirks up.

"What?" I ask.

"You have flour in your hair," he says, reaching up to brush it away. His fingers are warm. I find myself wanting to lean in to his hand, just a little bit.

"Thanks," I mumble.

Sherlock swallows hard. "John, I'm sorry about what I did yesterday. I shouldn't have done something so outright, not without your consent…"

"My consent?" I frown. "What difference would my consent make?"

He raises his eyes to meet mine. I never understood what colour they are. A green-blue, like the sea. "I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

I shift my weight. "Who said it made me feel uncomfortable?"

His expressions turns to one of barely concealed surprise. "It didn't?"

Now I'm stuck. What do I say? _No, I quite enjoyed it actually. _"It was…unexpected," I say carefully. "But I didn't…mind it." I finish with a small nod, satisfied with my answer.

Sherlock, instead of saying anything else, leans in so he's only an inch away from me. He seems to be waiting this time, as if asking if I'm still ok with it.

My hands are hanging limply at my sides. If this were a date situation, and I was with a girl, I'd put my arm around her. But this is Sherlock. What do I do with a Sherlock?

Slowly, I reach up and put my hand on his arm, lightly enough that I'm in no danger of digging my nails in if something shocks me.

He seems to take this as an acceptance, because he leans in and very gently presses his lips to mine for the second time in two days.

He's warm, which is a pleasant change from the chill of the flat, and there's something about him that's just…soft. All the girls I've met smell of perfume, or are caked in makeup, or are wearing clothes so provocative I have no idea where to look. With Sherlock, everything just seems more…familiar.

And I like it.

**How was it? I swear, if I don't get a heapload of reviews by morning, I'll be really upset. I tried VERY HARD on this chapter. Please review! :)**

**Amy xxx**

**P.S - If you ARE going to leave a review (which should apply to all of you), I enjoy long ones :) hint hint.**


	7. Sherlock is dead

**Hey :) Sorry it's a slightly shorter update than the previous one, and it's been a while since I've posted a new chapter, but hey - at least there's a new one now. A couple of people have been saying that Sherlock was slightly out of character in the last chapter, and my answer to that is simple: he's in love, and you don't really think properly when you're in love. Hopefully this chapter will clear some things up for you. Thanks to everyone who reviewed - enjoy!**

We have to go and see Lestrade later that day, with findings from the new case. I can't decide whether I'm pleased or disappointed that we have to leave the flat. When Sherlock had broken away from our kiss, it had ended much the same way as it had before.

"Thank you," he'd said, which had made me smile inwardly.

I'd nodded. "Ok," I'd said. "And Sherlock…I really don't mind."

Now we're sitting in the back of a taxi, rain beating down against the windows, me shivering uncontrollably, and Sherlock glancing over at me frequently.

"Are you cold?" he asks, sounding concerned.

My teeth chatter when I answer. "I'm fine," I manage.

It's obvious he doesn't believe me, since he unbuckles his seatbelt, switches to the middle seat, and buckles himself back in. Now his shoulder is touching mine. God, that's better. He's so…_warm_. And his coat is soft.

I wish I hadn't got up so early this morning – I'm tired now. I wonder what would happen if I leaned over and rested my head on Sherlock's shoulder?

I don't try it, because the taxi chooses that moment to pull up outside the house. Mycroft's house. Great. Like I _want_ to spend the day visiting Sherlock's sassy gay brother. Especially when the term 'gay' is so prominent in my life right now.

"Sorry," says Sherlock, sensing my unease. "We won't be here long."

_He said sorry. _He'd said it before too, when we were in the flat. And he'd hesitated before he kissed me, like he was _asking_. It's like he's a different person altogether.

I ring the doorbell, and we're escorted inside by the reserved assistant I had once found attractive. Not now, though. Now I cant help noticing her flaws – the way her calves are disproportional to her thighs, or the way her hair is flat and dull. I glance at Sherlock to see if I can spot any similar imperfections, but I actually can't. Everything about him is uniquely perfect, from his high, pale cheekbones to his deep turquoise eyes and full lips. Damn it.

Mycroft is waiting inside drinking a tumbler of whiskey. "Thank you, Athea," he says.

The assistant nods and leaves, tapping at her phone all the while.

"Sherlock," Mycroft greets him, standing and going to shake his brother's hand.

Sherlock remains rigid. "Mycroft," he acknowledges."

"I trust you have some leads for us," says Mycroft, sitting back down and gesturing for Sherlock and I to do the same. We do: I sit on one end of a long sofa and he sits on the other. Mycroft regards the distance with raised eyebrows.

"Of course we have leads," Sherlock scoffs. "What are you implying?"

Mycroft shifts defensively. "Nothing at all, dear brother. Just that a case this pressing requires your full, undivided attention." His eyes flicker to me briefly, then back to Sherlock.

"I've given it my full attention ever since it was presented to me," Sherlock says curtly. "That is not going to change now."

Mycroft continued to stare at his brother with one of the notorious Holmes family _'we-are-having-a-private-bitch-fight-so-keep-quiet'_ looks. Just as the door opens, he murmurs, "whatever you say."

It's Lestrade that walks in, with Molly scampering after him juggling a precariously balanced pile of folders and a Styrofoam cup of coffee. She leans down to let the folders slide on to the table, then takes a deep breath.

"Here's your coffee," she pants, thrusting the cup at Lestrade.

"Got a new worker-bee, Lestrade?" enquires Sherlock, the hint of a smile threatening to pull his lips up. Mycroft sighs and sinks in to his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Lestrade glares at him. "Donnovan's out sick for the week – Molly said she'd help out until she's better."

Sherlock smirked. It was a nice smirk to look at. "Don't get to attached," he murmurs, pressing his fingertips together under his chin.

Everyone relaxes considerably once the domestics are over and done with. I make space for Molly to sit on the sofa, which means scooting closer to Sherlock under Mycroft's amused gaze. What does that man know? And better still, how the hell does he know it?

"So," says Lestrade, setting down his coffee and looking at Sherlock. "What have you got for us? Come on – big pressing murder case, you must have something."

Sherlock drums his fingers against his knee – something he only does when he's agitated. I can almost hear the gears whirring in his head as he tries to come up with some facts. "The woman had traces of strong alcohol all over her – she was a drunk. Most likely she'd have been at a pub or night club when she was murdered."

Lestrade sighs. "Do you know how many bloody nightclubs there are in London?" he says.

"Her shoe is broken – the heel is snapped right off," Sherlock continues. "A nightclub somewhere with uneven paving. She smelt strongly of tobacco but her lungs are too healthy for those of a smoker, indicating she must have been in a closed-in area."

I fight of a smile. It's fun when he does that. Unless he's deducing me, then it's not so fun.

"Great," says Lestrade, gulping down coffee. "So we've got a dead prostitute. Anything else?"

Mycroft smirks. There's something going on there.

"Give me some time," Sherlock says, waving them away. "I'm only human."

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Barely."

It's at this point that Molly decides to pipe up. I feel guilty – I'd almost forgotten she's here. "Maybe we should keep quiet so Sherlock can think," she suggests, plucking at a loose thread on her sleeve.

I look at her gratefully, since I'm sure Sherlock isn't going to thank her.

Lestrade nods reluctantly and sinks in to an armchair opposite Mycroft, who offers him a glass of what looks like brandy.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "Uneven paving, smoke, alcohol." He keeps repeating this as he thinks.

At some point during this musings, his eyes flash open. "John?"

I glance up. "Yeah?"

"What do you think?"

Did he really just do that? He asked me for my opinion on a case – that's…odd. He never does that. I blow out a breath and rake a hand through my hair. "I don't know," I say. "Piccadilly Circus?"

There's a pause where everyone seems to be looking at everyone else. Lestrade locks gazes with Mycroft, I glance over at Molly, and a slow smile spreads over Sherlock's face.

"Perfect," he says. "It all fits together. A night club in Piccadilly Circus."

Lestrade swallows some more coffee and nods. "Alright," he says. "What now?"

"I suggest we send some of Scotland Yard's inspectors in there," says Mycroft. "If anyone can scare people in to talking, it's officials."

Lestrade nods again. "Right. Molly, find Anthea and the two of you can contact the Yard."

Molly jumps up and flits out of the room without hesitation.

"What about us?" I ask Lestrade. "Sherlock just solved this thing for you – you're keeping us in the dark now?"

"According to the British public, Sherlock is dead," Mycroft says. "My hands are tied." He shrugs elegantly and takes another sip of whiskey.

Sherlock stands up and brushes invisible dust off his suit. "John, we're leaving."

"Don't be sore about this, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "It's your own fault."

Sherlock doesn't answer; instead he strides out of the room, only looking behind him briefly to check that I'm following.

**Again, sorry it was so short, but oh well. I should post another one soon, and I can guarantee some more romance. It's about time John confronted him about it, don't you think? So yeah, I expect reviews from EVERYONE. Now I'm going out shopping, and by the time I get back I want there to be reviews from every one of my readers.**

** Amy xxx**


	8. More for you

**Hey :) Thanks again for all the reviews. Sorry if this chapter kind of sucks - I'm on my third sleepover of three consecutive sleepovers, so I am SO tired. But hey, I think it's pretty good. Warning: the ending is mushy. Enjoy!**

The taxi ride home is a long, awkward journey. Sherlock seems perpetually irritated – as he should be, considering he's just been kicked off a case – and refuses to say a word to me.

The driver has the radio turned up far too loud, playing a Muse song. It's not a bad song, to be honest – I quite like it – and before long I'm humming along with it contentedly.

When the taxi pulls up outside the flat, I realise Sherlock hasn't once commented on the humming. He'll snap at someone for _thinking_ too loudly, but he'll let me hum away until my heart's content. Strange.

He gets out of the taxi and immediately he's striding to the door, where he waits with folded arms and a set jaw.

I remember I'm the only one with a key now; I take out my key ring and unattach the house key. Then I throw it to him.

He's not even looking at me, but he still manages to catch it one-handed. "Forget something?" he mutters.

I roll my eyes and trudge up the steps. "Take it," I say. "I'll get mine back off Molly tomorrow."

Sherlock looks at me evenly for a few seconds in that infuriating way that makes me think he's considering something, then shrugs and turns to the door to let us in.

The flat's cold, so Mrs Hudson must not be home. The woman's obsessed with warmth – she'll crank the thermostat up to 100 if nobody else is around to sweat over it, and she has more blankets stashed in her linens cupboard than a five-star hotel. But when I touch the banister rail, I shiver. My clothes are still rain-soaked, and the chill sends icy shockwaves up my arm.

Sherlock doesn't seem to notice as he did in the taxi; he stalks upstairs, stripping off his coat and scarf as he walks. I catch them when he throws them behind him.

The flat is no less cold than the entrance, and I have a longing to turn on the gas fire. But the thing's ancient, and I don't even know if it works.

One of the windows is open, too, and rain water has spattered the windowsill underneath. And my laptop. _Damn it. _

"John, your laptop's wet," Sherlock mutters as he shrugs on his dressing gown.

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock." I sigh and go to retrieve the laptop from its soggy platform. That's the second time today I've had to clean this thing up.

Sherlock folds himself on to the sofa and scowls at the TV, which isn't even turned on. "I'm cold," he complains.

I have to forget the laptop. It's beyond saving unless I want to take it to a repair shop, and carrying it around outside during a downpour would do nothing to aid the situation. I'll take it later.

"What do you want me to do about it?" I ask him. "I could make some coffee?" I try to remember that he likes coffee, not tea.

Sherlock nods. "Black, two sugars."

I roll my eyes and head for the kitchen. "I remember…"

I make the coffee quickly, spooning two heaped teaspoons of sugar in to the black liquid and stirring it until it's mixed in. Then I carry it back through to the living room and hand it to Sherlock, who cups it in his hands as if it's the only thing keeping him alive. _Bad joke to make, John._

No 'thank you'. So the courtesy has stopped. It was nice while it lasted.

"I'm still cold," he says indignantly, gulping coffee. "Can't you turn on the fire?"

I glance at the fireplace warily. I can handle having a bomb strapped to my chest, I can handle being handcuffed to my flatmate, I can handle _baking bread_, but I can't handle a creaky old gas fire.

"Please?" Sherlock bats his eyelashes at me like a teenage girl.

But it does work, to be fair. With a sigh I kneel down and lean around to the back of the fire, trying to find the right dial to start the flames. Find the right one, the flat gets toasty warm; find the wrong one, the flat goes boom.

I hear the TV click on behind me, but I can still feel Sherlock's gaze boring in to my back. Why does he feel the need to stare at me whatever I do?

Eventually I find the right dial, and give it a harsh twist until there's a squeal, hiss, then crackle as the flames start dancing over the artificial coals.

"There," I say, straightening up and stretching. My back is going to kill in the morning. "Happy?"

"Very." Sherlock takes another sip of coffee and turns his attention to the TV.

"Good." I breathe a sigh of relief. There's a newspaper on the table that's practically calling my name; I pick it up and sit down in an armchair to read it.

I get to sit in silence for a blissful five minutes before Sherlock declares his boredom.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, for the second time that day. "I'm not that exciting." It's only after I've said it that I realise how wrong it sounds.

"You could talk to me," Sherlock suggests, frowning slightly for no apparent reason that I could see.

I sigh. "Alright," I say. That's it for the newspaper; I fold it and lay it aside. "Let's talk about you."

His frown deepens. "Me?"

"Yes, you," I say. "Start at the beginning and tell me again – why did you jump off a building?"

"I thought we'd already covered this, John." Sherlock sets his coffee cup down and looks at me properly, his eyes burning with…something. It's intense, that's all I know.

"Just talk."

Sherlock sighs. "Three bullets for my only three friends in the world," he murmurs. I notice his hand has stopped drumming – now it's clenched hard on the arm of the sofa. "Moriarty had three gunmen trained on you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade."

"You didn't have to jump," I say. "You could have found a way for him to call them off…"

Sherlock shook his head. "He killed himself," he says. "Shot himself in the head so there would be no other way."

"But you already knew he was going to do that," I say. "Or…something like that, anyway. You had the neck braces, and the ball…"

Sherlock nods slowly. "I did, yes."

There's a pause. Then a realisation dawns on me. "But you didn't know if it would work." My voice is blank. "You didn't know if you would survive it, even with everything you'd prepared."

He shrugs delicately. "It was a risk."

"You jumped off a roof – you almost died – for us?" I ask, of course implying Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and myself.

His eyes flicker to me. "More for you."

I nod, having not really heard that last part. I still can't believe he jumped. "Wait, me?"

He nods sincerely.

"What about Mrs Hudson and Lestrade…"

"More for you," he says again, in a way that indicates I should stop talking about it.

I swallow hard to clear a lump in my throat. "Well…thank you," I say. "But why couldn't I know? Everyone else knew you were alive, but you let me go on believing you were dead. I thought…"

"You thought what?" His eyes flash.

"That I was your best friend." I fold my arms and fix him with an unwavering stare.

Sherlock frowns slightly. And it is, to be perfectly honest, an adorable frown. "You are."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

He sighs. "Why do you think? If you believed I was dead, so would Moriarty and his friends."

"Moriarty's dead."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at me. Ok…Moriarty _isn't_ dead. WHAT THE HELL?

"Sherlock! He'll come after you, you know he will!" I stand up and start pacing back and forth.

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. "This is exactly my point – he thinks I'm dead because you did."

"So you kept me out of everything as part of a _performance_?" I seethe.

Sherlock stands up with less force than I did, and walks over to where I'm storming about on the rug. Carefully, he puts his hands on my shoulders and digs his fingers in until I've calmed down.

"That wasn't the only reason," he says, surprising me with how quiet his voice sounds.

I set my jaw. "What other reason is there, Sherlock?"

His eyes search my face, and unless I'm imagining it, they're swimming. As in, there are tears in the eyes of _Sherlock Holmes_.

"I knew that I wouldn't be able to stop myself coming back if you knew I was alive," he says. "The only thing keeping me away from this place was the fact you thought I was dead."

I can't stop myself. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. A hug. I need a hug, he bloody needs a hug, therefore there will be hugging.

"Thank you," I say. "For coming back."

As an answer, his arms tighten around me.

**Smushy ending. Sorry about that - it's what happens when I'm sleep deprived and I've been watching Sherlock reruns all night (yes, my sleepovers are THAT exciting). Please please PLEASE review so I'm motivated enough to put up the next chapter after my THIRD sleepover of the week tonight. **

**Amy xxx**


	9. What are we doing?

**Alright, I'm going to apologize in advance. I KNOW it's short. I KNOW the ending seems kind of rushed. But you have to understand that I literally HAVE NOT slept for three nights, and I've just finished writing a history essay that's due tomorrow morning, so I am UNBELIEVABLY tired. So however bad this chapter might seem, I did try my ABSOLUTE best. And as for it being rushed - they have had 8 whole chapters prior to this to work up to the conversation that's going to go on in this one. So when Sherlock says what he says at the end, just keep an open mind, ok? No sleep for three days. I'm only fourteen. I have school the day after tomorrow. It's not easy for me. Thanks to my wonderful reviewers. Enjoy!**

When we pull apart, I take a deep breath. I don't…I don't really know what that was. It was a hug, obviously, but it hadn't felt like just that.

Sherlock nods, turns on his heel, and stands facing the fireplace for a while. His shoulders are tensed, and I catch him passing a hand under his eyes and sniffing.

I decide to give him his private moment, going off in to the kitchen to make myself some tea. Tea is the one thing that remains the absolute same in my life. That and my blog. That's always a fun thing to do when I'm bored. Drink tea and blog about it. I get a mental image of one of those wartime posters – '_keep calm and carry on_'. But in my case it would be _'keep calm and drink tea'_.

When I return to the living room, Sherlock's sitting up straight on the sofa with his coffee in his hand.

I sit next to him instead of taking up position in my armchair, though I'm not sure why. Perhaps because the flat really _is_ cold, and the sofa's closer to the fire than the chair. That's what I'm telling myself, anyway.

He doesn't seem to respond negatively to my sitting next to him – quite the opposite, actually. He shifts a little closer and moves so his shoulder is pressed against mine. I'm glad he doesn't do the whole _I'm-going-to-pretend-to-yawn-so-I-can-put-my-arm-around-you_ thing. It's just so not Sherlock, it would be a wide step too far.

But to his credit, he isn't completely ignorant of played-out moves. He reached _across _me to get the remote instead of asking me to pass it, meaning his arm brushes against my upper leg. I take a scalding gulp of tea.

When he settles back, he leaves his hand in the small space between us. Now what do I do? What am I supposed to _do_ with that?

Slowly, after I've placed my mug of tea on the coffee table, I act like I accidentally placed my hand so our fingers are touching. Then we go back to watching the TV in complete silence.

However, after a few moments of me leaning ever so slightly against him, I sigh in irritation and mute the TV.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at me. Christ, he's beautiful. Christ, did I just think that? I need to get this sorted out.

"What are we doing, Sherlock?" I ask, sitting so I'm facing him. Mercifully, he turns to face me too. This will be a whole lot easier if I can establish some form of eye contact.

That adorable crease appears between his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

I make an elaborate gesture to indicate the space between us. "_This_. What is it?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Air. We breathe it."

"You know what I mean, Sherlock!" I seethe, my voice rising and falling in pitch.

He sighs. "I thought it was clear enough."

I bite the inside of my cheek and frown. "Yeah, well, 'clear enough' doesn't really do it for me. Care to elaborate?"

"I was away for a long time," he states.

"Yeah," I say, still annoyed. "You were."

"And while I was away I spent a lot of time thinking," he continues. "About you."

That makes me stop. Sherlock thinks about dead bodies. He thinks about crime scenes. He thinks about impossible murder mysteries. To think that I fall in to any one of those categories is frankly disturbing.

"I don't know why," he says. "I just kept wondering what you'd say to me. Whenever I was being rude to someone, I kept feeling like you should be standing by my elbow telling me to shut up."

"Fantastic," I say. "So the memories you have of me are just me being all mother-hen and flitting around you like an unwanted conscience?"

Sherlock looks vaguely alarmed. "No," he says. "No, that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Sherlock? Tell me what this is." Again I indicate the space, even though I probably look like a complete lunatic flapping my arms around in front of him.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't know," he says. "I'm not good with labels."

"Oh!" I say, almost laughing harshly. "You want to put a _label_ on this? I don't even think there _is_ a label for it! I'll tell you what there is – a film title! A bloody _film title_, Sherlock! _Friends With Benefits_. That's a pretty fricking obvious label for whatever the hell this is!"

There's a silence on his part while I'm still busy working it all out of my system. Why the hell did I just snap at him like that? He hasn't done anything wrong. Jesus Christ, I'm such a dick.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry…"

He waves off my concern. "It's fine," he says, sounding thoughtful. His eyes are fixated on a point behind my head; I wish he'd just look at me.

"Sherlock…"

His eyes flash to stare deep in to mine. "I said it's fine."

I sigh in exasperation. "Well it's clearly not fine, Sherlock." This is it. I can't avoid saying this any more. "You've kissed me twice," I say, keeping my voice gentle. "And I'm not going to hide the fact that I kissed you back. But just now we were acting as if we were afraid of catching herpes off each other."

Sherlock's lips tug up in to a smirk. I'm so glad to see that smirk.

"So…what's going on?" I ask. "What are we doing?"

He touches his fingertips together under his chin, back to staring absently in to space. "I used to be…immune to these things. I could ignore it if I saw a woman – or a man – become attracted to me in any way, and I didn't pay them any attention in return. It wasn't as if I was opposed to having a relationship – I just felt I didn't need one. But it became quite clear to me while I was away from you that all that had changed – I do need you, John."

Hm. That's…that's difficult to follow. "Well, I need you too," I say, going for the 'acting dumb' approach. "You're my best friend – we've worked together for at least a year now."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at me. "You know what I mean," he says, irritation colouring his words slightly. "I can't leave again, John. I don't want to leave again. I don't want to leave you."

"And I don't want you to leave," I say simply. "You've been missed at work, no matter what Mycroft says…"

"_How many different ways can I say it, John?"_ he exclaims, looking so adorably worked up. "How many times can I say this before you get it in to your head? I don't want to leave, I need you, I don't want to be without you. I love you."

**Again, I'm sorry the ending was rushed. I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, but I tried to keep them as in-character as possible. Please please PLEASE review, and I'm sorry if you hated the chapter, or if you now hate me for my massive ranting author's note at the top. To make up for it, I'll use the last ounce of my adrenaline to post one more chapter tonight.**

**Amy xxx **


	10. Biscuits

**Ok. Basically, see the rant in the previous chapter if you want details of why I'm so tired. To make up for my tiredness, I have used up the last ounce of adrenaline in my body to post TWO new chapters. It's now midnight here in England, so this better make you happy. I expect SO many reviews for my efforts here. Enjoy!**

In every film, in every TV show, in every book, in every song, there's always the right answer pre-planned out in a script or lyric or sentence. In reality, there's no luxury like a lifeline.

So when Sherlock tells me he loves me, all I can do is sit and stare. There are a _lot_ of thoughts swimming around in my head right now. One: I'm still cold. Two: my tea is getting cold. Three: Sherlock's _coffee_ is getting cold. Four: Sherlock loves me. Five: do I love Sherlock too? Six: since when am I gay? Seven: since when don't I mind being gay? Eight: since when do I want to be gay?

"I…" the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "I love you too."

But however unsure I was about saying those words, I wouldn't take them back for all the money in the bank of England. The way Sherlock's face lights up when he hears them is priceless, like seeing a small child on Christmas morning. Except it's so, so much better.

"You don't mean it," he says, still smirking at me.

I frown. "I do," I say.

Sherlock nods slowly. "Well…good."

"Good," I agree.

I reach out and pick up my cup of tea again, gulping it down to save it before it gets too cold.

The flat's still freezing. I actually can't think of anything I want more than to rest against Sherlock, like it was before just less…awkward.

"Are you ok?" he asks.

I look up. "Yeah," I say. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem worried," says Sherlock.

I shake my head. "No," I say. "No, I'm not worried."

There's no warning, but within the next moment he's shifted so he's sitting cross-legged on the sofa facing me, his knees touching mine. His turquoise eyes stare at me intensely, and they're so mesmerising I find it hard to look away.

"Can I have some of that?" he asks, gesturing to the mug in my hand.

I frown. "Don't you still have coffee?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I finished it," he says.

"Oh," I say, handing him the mug. "Yeah, you can have some." Then I just watch as he lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip. He looks amazing when he drinks, too – his eyes close and he looks very relaxed.

I know I'm blatantly staring, but there is honestly no way I can stop.

When he's done, he hands the mug back to me and smiles warmly. "Thanks," he says.

I nod. Another thank you. This is so weird. It will take me years to get used to this. Unable to think of anything else to do, I take another gulp of tea.

Then his hands are there, taking the cup away from me. He places it on the coffee table then rests his hands on my shoulders, bringing our faces closer together than before. Jesus. For a man who's never had a serious relationship before, he sure as hell knows what to do.

He doesn't wait to ask for permission this time, he just leans in and presses our lips together gently. His are warm, and soft, and it's all I can do not to fall against him for more. But this is nice, the slow pace, and it's good for letting me get used to this whole idea.

Sherlock moves so he's kneeling, but I'm still sitting, so his head is bent when he pulls away slightly and kisses the end of my nose. Oddly sentimental, but I like it. Then he goes back to my lips, cupping my face with his long pale hands and brushing his thumbs over my cheekbones and jaw.

I'm unsure of where to put my hands again – his body is so completely different to a girl's. I try to think of the way he's held me before – the phrase 'do to others what you would want them to do to you' pops in to my mind, and I'm grateful for it.

Slowly, I raise my hands and place them on his hips.

I must have done something right, because he smirks against my mouth and moves closer still.

Eventually we end up almost lying down; I'm leaning back against the arm of the sofa with my legs stretched out in front of me, and he's kneeling slightly to the side of me, propping himself up on one elbow so as not to fall on me.

I can feel the muscles of his chest through the thin material of his purple shirt – I love that shirt. He's not built like a soldier, but he's built like someone who runs through London on a regular basis, jumping from rooftop to rooftop and sliding over the bonnets of cars.

He's perfect in a lot of ways I can't even begin to explain. He's completely insane, and he's the worst roommate ever if you happen to be an obsessive fan of cleanliness, but I find it so easy to look past those things. Especially now, when we're so close to each other any form of distance would be painful.

We have to stop when Mrs Hudson comes up, since neither of us want anyone to know about this until everything with the press is cleared up completely.

She leaves a tray of biscuits and two more cups of tea, then smiles at our thanks and leaves. She closes the door behind her.

I pick up a biscuit and take a bite out of the corner, eyeing the plate hungrily. When was the last time I ate something? Mrs Hudson had shoved the bread dough in the oven and remembered to take it out, and it was now wrapped in a cloth in one of the cupboards. Still, I hadn't had any of it yet. This biscuit was literally the only thing I'd eaten that day.

"Hurry up," says Sherlock, sounding almost comically impatient.

I frown at him. "You need to eat something," I say lightly. "I swear I could feel your ribs earlier."

He looks down at his chest and tugs at his crumpled shirt so it becomes even tighter. I admire the view for a moment. "I'm completely fine," he insists.

"You're completely not, Sherlock," I say. "You know it's not healthy to be that thin, right?"

"It's also not healthy to be obese."

"One biscuit is not going to make you obese, Sherlock," I say. I choose one from the plate that I know he likes – I've seen him eating it on the rare occasions he decides to pay his body some respect. "Here," I say, holding it out to him.

He opens his mouth a fraction.

"You're joking," I say bluntly.

He's clearly not joking – he just opens his mouth that bit wider.

With a sigh, I hold the biscuit out and place it in between his teeth. He bites down, and his eyes are bright with amusement as he chews around his grin. When he's done with that bite, I give him the other half, until he's succeeded in eating a whole biscuit.

"There," I say, laughing and wiping the crumbs off on my jeans. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Sherlock shakes his head. He looks at the plate, then back at me. "Are you done?" he asks.

"For now, yeah," I say. "I'll probably have another one later, though…"

But I don't get to finish. He's kissing me again, and I'm not going to break that off just to talk about biscuits.

**Yeah, mushy ending. Please please PLEASE review - I'm so tired and it would be amazing to wake up to loads of good reviews tomorrow morning.**

**Amy xxx**


	11. I missed you

**There comes a time in every story's life where there needs to be a whole OOC chapter, full of characters behaving in ways they shouldn't. For this fanfiction, that time is now. I'm about to open up a teabag of angst on this trainwreck. I hope you guys are ready, because this thing is intense. But before you commence your reading, I'll tell you this: I promise the next chapter will be happy like rainbows, maybe even funny. Enjoy!**

By the time midnight rolls around, I decide it's time to go to bed. A lack of both food and sleep could cause Sherlock some serious problems, considering how thin he is. And how pale.

"Come on," I say, shifting out from underneath him and taking his hand to pull him up off the sofa. "You need to get some sleep."

He groans and buries his face in a pillow. "Why? I'm off the case – I don't need sleep."

"Normal people need sleep," I insist. "When you're off a case, you're normal. Come on. Up." I tug on his arm.

With a heaved sigh and an incoherent mumble, Sherlock manages to drag himself in to a standing position.

"Right," I say. "Now I'm standing here until I see you go in to your room."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "How will you know I'm sleeping?"

I tap my foot and think about that for a minute. He has a fair point. "Because I can lock the door."

"You wouldn't." He narrows his eyes at me.

"I would, Sherlock," I say in earnest. "You need to sleep, and so do I. Just…get some rest, alright?"

He nods, looking slightly like a child that's just been told off. It's very difficult to walk away when he pulls a face like that.

But I do. I turn on my heel and make for the door that leads in to my room. "Night, Sherlock," I say.

"Night, John."

When I'm at the door I pause, just long enough to hear the click of his door opening and closing. Good.

But getting him to bed was the least of my worries. Now I'm lying awake in the darkness of my own room, staring at the ceiling blankly. I wish I knew what the hell had happened the past year.

I try to run through it in my mind.

I'd left the army.

I'd developed a limp.

I'd been introduced to Sherlock.

I'd moved in with Sherlock.

I'd lost the limp.

I'd been on dates with girls.

I'd messed up on dates with girls.

I'd been to dinner with Sherlock.

I'd kissed Sherlock.

I'd fallen in love with Sherlock.

It's all so simple when it's put out before me like that. I love Sherlock, and by the sounds of things he loves me too.

Again, I think about films. There's always a romantic scene in a film, no matter what you go and see. You could see _Saw_ and find romance, you could see _Nativity!_ and find romance. But in most films, especially rom-coms and the like, whenever there is a declaration of love, the two people in question end up sleeping in the same bed that very night. Granted, it always seems to be some natural, typically pretty woman and a man who's all California-surfer, but I'm sure the guidelines still apply to less…_traditional_ couples.

So that leaves me wondering. Should I have followed Sherlock to his room? Should I have just casually slid in to bed beside him like I'd normally do in my own room? No, that's creepy. The man's been asexual for most of his life – he'd probably have a breakdown if his former flatmate just jumped under the covers with him.

Which is why I'm stuck here, in my own single bed, which suddenly feels very cold. If I'd been on a date with a girl, I probably _would_ be at her house right now. But I don't care. I love Sherlock too much to care where I have to sleep.

With this happy knowledge fresh in my mind, I let my eyes drift closed.

~Sherlock~

I'm woken by the noise of the kettle in the kitchen. This is early for Mrs Hudson, who usually wakes up late then goes out to the bakery round the corner.

With a sigh, I sit up and rub my eyes. God, I'm tired. I think the whole Sherlock-not-being-dead thing is still catching up with me.

Very aware all I'm wearing is my boxers and a t-shirt, I pull on a pair of loose jeans and shrug on an old jumper. There. Comfortable. My hair always seems to stick up at odd angles anyway, so I'm not going to bother trying to fix it.

When I'm fully awake, I shuffle out of the room and make my way in to the kitchen.

And I stop. And I stare.

Because it's not Mrs Hudson standing by the unit, it's Sherlock. The late-riser Sherlock who I had to force in to bed last night. My Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, staring intently at the kettle.

"Morning," I say cautiously, coming in to the kitchen and leaning against the unit. My leg's completely fine these days, except in the mornings when it feels slightly weaker than the other.

Sherlock offers me a warm smile. "Morning," he says.

I look around me. All his papers on the table have been filed in to neat piles. "Are you doing an experiment?" I ask.

"No," he says, taking two mugs down from the cupboard and setting them on the unit, dropping a teabag in each. "I'm making tea."

I can almost feel my jaw drop to the floor. "You're making tea," I repeat.

He nods. "Yes, I assumed you'd want some."

"I do," I say, going to the fridge to receive the milk for him. It's a miracle we even have milk – we _never_ have milk.

"Good," he says, adding hot water to both cups and pouring in the milk. Then he takes out a teaspoon and stirs one of them quickly before handing it to me.

"Thanks," I say, cupping my hands gratefully around the mug. The flat's gone cold again, as it always does in the morning. London is merciless to those people with weak windows and drafty doors.

Sherlock stirs his own drink slowly, looking down in to the mug. "I did go to sleep last night," he murmurs.

"Hm?" I look up from my tea.

"Sleeping," he says again. "It took a while, but I did get some."

"Really? Good." I smile at him in earnest. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the concept of having tea made _for_ me, instead of being asked to make it for someone else.

He nods. "Thank you," he says.

There he goes again. He's all pleases and thank yous lately. But to be honest, I don't mind.

He looks at me with a mixture of concern and adoration in his deep, entrancing eyes. "Are you alright, John?" he asks, sounding so sincere I know immediately I shouldn't make a joke about it.

"Of course," I say. "Why wouldn't I be?"

With a sigh, Sherlock sits down at the table and pulls out the chair opposite him. I sit warily.

"I went to the bathroom earlier, to brush my teeth," he says.

I nod. "As you do."

He nods along, still frowning slightly. "But while I was in there I…found something."

Now I'm confused. "What did you find?" I ask. "I swear, I didn't touch any of your experiments while you were away…."

Sherlock waves off my concern. "Not that," he says. "I found…"

Setting my mug down, I reach out and lay my hand over his. "What is it, Sherlock?"

He sighs and looks up at me. "I found a straight-razor, John," he says.

I swallow hard, and my blood runs cold. I can't drag these memories up now, I really can't. I want to beg him to stop talking about it, but there's no way to stop this. Like the conversation yesterday, it has to be done. Still, I can't stop myself stalling him. "Lots of people still use those," I say.

He shakes his head. "You don't," he insists. "You use razor blades from a packet – I've seen them in the cabinet before." Slowly, he turns my hand over so it's resting with my palm facing the ceiling. Then he pushes my sleeve up.

My wrist is slightly tanned from my time in Afghanistan, the veins only slightly visible through the skin. It's bare from any imperfections.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," I say, swallowing a lump in my throat. "See? It's nothing."

"John," he says, barely a whisper. Gently he takes up my other hand and pushes the sleeve up. Then he sighs and clenches his eyes shut.

My left wrist is much the same as my right, save for one small thing: the tiny scar about midway up my inner arm, puckered and pinkish-white.

"John," Sherlock says again, and his voice sounds…heartbroken. "Please. Please tell me this is something from the war, or…"

I'm already shaking my head. "I wish I could," I say, my voice rising and falling in pitch again the way it does when I'm struggling to control it.

He bends his head and kisses the scar on my arm, very softly, as if he could still hurt me by doing so. "How many times?" he murmurs against my skin. "Are there others?"

I shake my head. "I only tried it once," I whisper. I shake my head, teeth clamped down on my lip. "I hated it, Sherlock."

"Why did you do it?" he asks, coming up from my arm and taking both my hands in both of his. He's fiercely protective when he wants to be.

I look up so I can meet his eyes. His are brimming with tears, and I know mine are too. Christ, we're the oldest children in London. "I was just looking for ways to distract myself," I say, shaking my head and sniffing.

The adorable frown comes back. "Distract?"

I nod. Then, unable to hold back any more, I lean over and wrap my arms around him, holding him tightly as I cry in to his shoulder. "I missed you so much, Sherlock."

He obviously realises what I mean, because his arms tighten around me and I hear him whisper, "my God, John."

**I did give you a fair warning at the start. But I'll stand by my promise, and to make sure I haven't perpetually depressed you all by leaving you with this chapter, I'll update again, even though in England it is now MIDNIGHT and I now haven't slept for FOUR days, and I have school tomorrow. But...yeah. I guess I'm just addicted to this story. Please please PLEASE review so I know that my efforts are appreciated. **

**Amy xxx**


	12. Violin

**Hey :) So I know I said I'd update yesterday after my sorrowfully depressing chapter, but I got halfway through and the ideas just stopped flowing. I think my brain clocks out at a certain time - midnight is my limit. But here, as a peace offering I'm giving you this happy chapter! There was a specific request from one reviewer that this chapter not include any rainbows. ...there are no rainbows. **

We both agree, after much crying and hugging, never to mention the ordeal with the straight razor again. Sherlock uses some sort of acid to dissolve it in to powder, then he sprinkles the powder in one of the neighbour's flowerpots.

"You won't be seeing it again," he tells me as he comes back in through the door, still wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown. His feet are bare; I wonder if he went outside like that, or if he at least put on shoes.

While I settle in to my chair and read the paper, he picks up his violin and starts to play a tune with lots of ups and downs, like a rollercoaster. It's fun – very possibly Irish.

"Sounds nice," I remark, turning a page of the newspaper.

Sherlock opens his eyes (they're always closed while he's playing) and smiles, looking slightly surprised. "It does?" he asks.

"Yeah." I nod in earnest. "Who is it?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he says, sifting through sheet music, finding one that satisfies him, and handing it to me. "It's one of mine."

I look it over with raised eyebrows. To me it's simply a mess of dots and squiggles, like a more artistic version of Morse code. "I don't know how you can read this," I say, handing it back to him.

He shrugs. "It's a question of practice, and remarkable patience." He moves his fingers over the strings of his beloved violin.

"Well it sounds good," I say, going back to my paper.

I don't get to read it for long, though. Before I've even started on the headlines, he's leaning over me, one arm braced on either side of me. And he's squinting at me. Deducing.

"Sherlock?"

He narrows his eyes at me. "Stand up," he says.

I stand.

"Come on," he says. "Stand…here." He manhandles me until I'm positioned in front of his music stand.

"Right," I say. "What's this about?"

Sherlock moves so he's facing me, and hands me the violin. "Hold it properly," he tells me. "Like I do."

With a sigh, I move my hands so they're in the right positions, with one on the neck of the violin and the other holding the bow. "Right?"

He nods. "Now, put the bow on the strings and press down on the C string to get a note."

I sigh again. "Why am I doing this, Sherlock?" I ask.

"Because I'm bored of playing, and you need to learn to do something other than read the paper." Then Sherlock stops talking, moving to stand behind me. He puts his arms along the length of mine and cups his hands over mine. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck.

"This isn't going to work," I say. "My musical talent is restricted to Year 2 recorder lessons."

I can feel Sherlock smile against my hair. "I would have loved to see that."

"Yeah, I bet you would," I mutter, but I can't help smiling slightly. It's so distracting having him plant tiny kisses on the back of my head.

Still, I manage to wring a few decent notes out of the thing, and now Sherlock's moved on to teaching me to read sheet music.

We're sitting on the sofa to do this, since standing became uncomfortable quite quickly. I'm up straight while Sherlock's lying down, his head resting in my lap.

"Look again," he says. "It's not hard."

I bite back a laugh. No, that didn't sound wrong at all. "I've been trying for ages, Sherlock," I complain. How is it that the violin can sound so bloody brilliant when he's holding it, but sound like a dying cat when I am? Injustice in its most violent form, if you ask me.

Sherlock sighs and looks up at me. "Fine," he says. "If you don't want to try anymore, put your hands to good use."

Now I'm confused. Setting the sheet music aside, I try to figure out what he means. "Good use…?"

He rolls his eyes and takes my hands in his, then places them so my fingers are tangled in his hair. It's soft, and I immediately start pulling through the curls.

"That's better," he murmurs contentedly, letting his eyes slip shut.

I chuckle. "Better than listening to my violin playing?"

A slow smile spreads over his mouth. "Far better."

I roll my eyes but continue to fuss about with his hair, until my phone rings from the coffee table.

Sherlock's hand shoots out to grab my arm. "Don't get up," he says. "Leave it."

"I can'," I say. "I'm not like you – I actually feel the need to answer my phone when it rings."

He groans and curls in on himself. "It was a text," he mumbles.

"Let me up."

With an annoyed moan that turns in to a whimper halfway through, he rolls off me and lands on the floor, where he stays with his face pressed to the carpet.

I step over him carefully and go to get my phone. There's only one text, but it's from the one person I don't want to talk to.

_Sherlock isn't taking it all too badly, is he? – M_

"Big brother?" Sherlock asks, rolling over so he's lying facing the ceiling.

I nod. "Just checking up on you."

"Are you going to reply?" he asks, sounding bored.

I sigh. "No doubt he'll send the Navy over here if I don't." I click on 'compose new message' and type out a quick response.

_He's handling it – JW_

Then I make sure my phone is switched off before tossing it in to the corner of the room. I'm not worried about it breaking – it's as sturdy as a brick.

I look down at Sherlock, who's still lying on the floor. "Getting comfy?" I ask, grinning at him.

Sherlock looks around him, considering. "Quite."

"So you're not going to join me on the sofa?"

He shakes his head.

"Alright then."

"You could join me on the floor."

I sit down on the sofa. "The floor's uncomfortable."

"It's actually not." He pats the rug with the flats of both his hands. "The carpet's surprisingly soft. I think Mrs Hudson had it cleaned."

"Thank God," I mutter. "Who knows what kind of crap you put that thing through?"

Sherlock looks at me with a small smile playing over his lips. He looks nice even when he's upside-down. "I did say you could join me."

I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what he means, and then I get it. And I grimace. "Not that kind of crap, Sherlock! No! Not with Mrs Hudson here."

He pouts. "She was here yesterday," he says. "You didn't seem to care then."

"Sherlock…"

He sighs. "We can lock the door."

"She doesn't have a key?" I must be crazy.

Sherlock shakes his head. "You borrowed it off her, remember?"

I don't remember, but that's not really the point right now. The point is that Sherlock is lying on the rug in front of me, asking me to lie down _with_ him, and I haven't done anything about it yet.

"Fine," I say with a sigh, shifting so I'm sitting on the floor. Then I lie back and roll over to face him, curling up beside him and resting my head on his chest.

He smirks. "See? Not uncomfortable."

I roll my eyes, more for my own benefit since he can't actually see me. "For now, but if my legs start falling asleep, I'm using you as a pillow." Then I blush as I realise how suggestive that sounds.

There's a short silence while he considers, then he says, "I'd let you."

"Morning, boys."

"_Jesus Christ_!" I almost have a heart attack when I realise we're not alone. I roll away from Sherlock at break-neck speed, fetching up against the side of the sofa. I use the armrest to push myself up in to a standing position, and suddenly I'm face-to-face with Lestrade.

A long silence follows.

Then, unable to say anything else, I remark: "I knew he'd send somebody."

**Yeah. Hopefully that was a bit more optimistic than the previous chapter. I feel bad for doing that to John. I know he'd never do that to himself in the actual program. Anyhoo, I really hope this chapter was ok, and because I'm feeling quite generous I AM going to try and post another one tonight (before my clocking-out time, of course). Please please PLEASE review - they mean so much to me *especially long ones* :D**

**Amy xxx**


	13. Hat

**I promised you another chapter. I know it's not the best it could be, and I know it's actually PAINFULLY short, but at least it's new. Enjoy!**

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at Lestrade. I'm very aware he's still lying down, most likely staring at someone's crotch. What other reason is there for lying on the floor in all-male company?

"What are you doing here?" he asks, sounding more than slightly irritated. I can't blame him – the guy interrupted a nice moment.

Lestrade offers us both a friendly smile. "Nice to see you, too."

I cross my arms over my chest and hope I look intimidating. Which I probably don't, since I'm a good deal shorter than both of them. Bollocks.

"Alright," says Lestrade, shifting his weight. "I thought I'd see how you're getting on."

"You mean Mycroft thought he'd see how I'm getting on, but he was too busy cleaning up the mess to do it himself," Sherlock muttered, twisting around so he was sitting with his back against the sofa.

I frown. "What mess?"

Lestrade swallows a lump in his throat and tugs at his collar. "This isn't about Mycroft, Sherlock," he says.

"Isn't it? Then exactly why are you here?" Sherlock asks, getting to his feet and going in to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I follow him and lean against the doorway.

Lestrade hovers uncomfortably behind me. "We've run out of leads," he says. "The trail stopped just after Piccadilly – we need your help again."

Sherlock looks up from the tap. "No."

"What?" Lestrade sounds horrified.

I decide to answer for him. "You can't just take his name off a case then use him whenever you get stuck."

Sherlock offers me a smile. I smile back. He winks. I'm positive I blush.

"Jesus Christ." Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose and starts pacing back and forth.

I want him to leave. Having him here is boring. God, now I sound like Sherlock.

"Do you need anything else?" Sherlock asks. "We were busy."

Lestrade turns on him, looking exasperated. "DOING WHAT?"

"Does it matter?" I say quickly, before Sherlock gets cocky and blows everything. Jesus, that was a whole sentence full of wrong.

"Give my regards to Mycroft," Sherlock says, going to the door and opening it wide for Lestrade to step out.

"Not my division." With a final glare at both of us, Lestrade storms out and slams the door behind him.

Sherlock and I are left staring at each other. Yes, the mood for anything romantic has been stamped on harshly, but I swear I'm breathing laughing gas.

I giggle, then chuckle, and soon I'm laughing so hard I'm crying. Sherlock joins in, and by the end of it we've collapsed on to the sofa in a hysterical mess.

"What did you mean, 'the mess'?" I ask, catching my breath.

Sherlock wipes his eyes. "Hm?"

"You said Mycroft was too busy cleaning up the mess," I say. "What did you mean?"

With a grin, Sherlock leans forward and kisses my forehead. "Why do you think it took Lestrade so long to get here?"

I shrug. "Couldn't get a cab?"

"He has a police car."

"Bad traffic?"

"Not rush hour."

"Stopped to get something?"

"He wouldn't, if he was under orders from Mycroft."

"I thought he said Mycroft wasn't…"

"He's involved, he always is."

"Then why was he with Mycroft?"

"The same reason I'm with you."

"What was all that about the mess?"

"What happens when two people are careless about how they…"

"Ok!" I jump up and head in to the kitchen. Now I need a glass of water. "I've heard enough." It's a shame it had to stop there – deducing with Sherlock was fun when he wasn't focusing his skills on me.

Sherlock smirks up and picks up my newspaper, flipping through it idly. "They're still printing this picture?" There's a photo of him wearing the deerstalker.

"People like the hat," I tell him.

He frowns. "What people?"

"People. The great British public. Londoners. Non-Londoners. People in hidden-away little places like Buckinghamshire." I shrug and sit down next to him. "People like the hat."

**So there you go. Another two-chapters-in-one-evening deal. By the way, no offense to people in the prior-mentioned county of Buckinghamshire; I'm actually from there myself. High Wycombe! Don't know why I'm so proud of that. Anyway, I expect lots and lots of reviews :)**

**Amy xxx**


	14. The Watson Wears Westwood

**Ok. I've opened up the can of angst, now it's time to open up the can of flirt. It's time Johnlock got their relationship rolling ;) Enjoy!**

It's not until later that I remember Lestrade's offer. I'm replacing a blown bulb for Mrs Hudson while Sherlock watches me intently, holding my tea for me.

"So," I say, tugging the old bulb free and placing it on the floor by the ladder. "Are you going to go back to the case?"

Sherlock frowns. "I thought you said I shouldn't."

I raise an eyebrow as I twist the new bulb in to place. "Since when have you cared about my opinion?"

He shifts position; he's been standing for ages and he flatly refuses so take a seat. "I care," he says.

Finished with the bulb, I come down the ladder and place my hands on his shoulders. "Of course you do," I say. Then I lean in and kiss him gently.

But Sherlock, being Sherlock, turns it in to a I'm-going-to-take-your-breath-away-and-you're-going-to-love-it contest, and soon we're backed up together against the wall, my arms around his waist.

"Boys!"

I detach myself from him with a gasp and my cheeks burn as I look over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway is Mrs Hudson, holding a fold-away umbrella and leather purse.

"I…um…" I stammer.

"Not in my hallway." Mrs Hudson inspects the ceiling. "Oh, good, you replaced the bulb," she says cheerily, stepping over the toolbox on the floor and making for the kitchen. "Take it upstairs, Sherlock."

I bury my face in my hands and pretend I'm somewhere else. Which doesn't actually work, since the only things I see in the dark are mental images of Afghanistan or, worse, Mycroft's office.

"I'll take the case," Sherlock decides. "I'm bored."

I try my hardest not to take offence at that. "Good," I say. "You need to get out of the flat." I'm masking my disappointment remarkably well.

However, I feel uplifted when Sherlock says, "Will you have dinner with me?"

"For the case," I say.

He nods. "I need surveillance on London, and I won't trust anyone's eyes but my own."

I sigh. "Not exactly what normal people do over dinner."

The adorable frown makes an appearance. "What do normal people?"

I shake my head. "It…uh…it doesn't matter. Yeah, I'll have dinner with you. Where are we going?" From the banister rail, I take my coat and shrug it on over my jumper.

"The Ritz Hotel."

I glance up. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock fixes me with that irritatingly calm gaze of his. "The Ritz Hotel," he repeats. "I'm sure you've heard of it."

"Yeah, Sherlock, I've heard of it – I've also seen the prices. You know that place costs the same as I earn in a month, right?" I can't even believe he expects me to pay for _two_ meals, no matter how insanely small the portions might be…

"Mycroft's covering all the expenses," he says evenly, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

I frown. "Why would he do that?"

"One of the perks of taking the case." Sherlock steps behind me and strips me of my coat. "He thinks it's for research." He regards me critically. "You can't wear that."

I tug at the cable-knit jumper and sigh. "What's wrong with it?" But deep down, I know what's wrong. The Ritz is full of people wearing black-tie and evening dresses, especially at almost eleven at night.

Sherlock doesn't answer. Instead he takes my arms, lifts them over my head, and rids me of my jumper.

"Sherlock…" I'm very aware that Mrs Hudson could walk in on this at any second, and she'd be too stunned to listen to a proper explanation.

Eventually he gives up, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "It's no good," he says. "Taking off layers doesn't make any considerable difference."

"It makes me cold," I mutter, pulling my jumper back over my head.

Sherlock drums his fingers against a sideboard, considering. "Follow me," he says, beckoning me upstairs after him.

"Sherlock, it's already ten-thirty…"

He waves away my concern. "We have time."

We reach the flat, and immediately Sherlock disappears in to his room. I don't follow – Sherlock's room is like the inner sanctum of his mind. Nobody else is permitted.

However, he soon emerges, his arms full of clothes. Suits, mostly.

"They won't fit," I tell him. "You're twice my size in height."

He ignores me and commences sifting through the pile. "Some of them are old," he murmurs. "I outgrew them a while ago…"

I roll my eyes and sigh impatiently, tapping my foot against the floor.

"Here." He comes up with a grey suit jacket, white shirt and pale blue tie. There are grey trousers to go with the jacket. "These should fit you."

"Should?" I don't want to try them on and walk out looking like a complete idiot with clothes that hang way past my wrists and ankles.

Sherlock looks impatient. "They _will_, then. Just go and put them on."

With a sigh, I snatch the clothes off him and disappear in to the bathroom.

~Sherlock~

I come out looking like something from a Fashion Week magazine. It's like a Charles Dickens novel collided head-first with Mycroft's wardrobe. Mercifully, Sherlock hasn't forced me to wear a waistcoat. There are some limits to how alike your date and your brother can be, and I think Sherlock knows he has reached those limits.

"Look at that," Sherlock says, smirking at my disgruntled expression. "The Watson Wears Westwood."

I roll my eyes, but I find it very hard to poke fun at him. He's changed too, and he actually IS wearing a waistcoat, but not a Mycroft-type waistcoat. It's a waistcoat that has a very low neckline, and it's jet black. He's wearing a silvery-grey tie with a white shirt, and his suit jacket and trousers match the waistcoat.

If I look like Mycroft, Sherlock looks like James Bond.

"Shall we go?" he asks, oblivious to my blatant staring. I know he's noticed it – he's just fatheaded and he won't comment if he knows I'll stop giving him attention.

I nod and swallow a lump in my throat. "Yeah," I say. "Let's…let's go."

~Sherlock~

Though we hadn't managed to escape without Mrs Hudson cooing at our attire, we made it to the cab with a minimal amount of lipstick marks on our cheeks. If we were both ten years younger, we'd probably leave them there out of pride, but we're grown men; we have to wipe them away.

Which we do very creatively, with Sherlock and I taking turns at removing the lipstick off each other's faces in ways that has the cab driver squinting at us through the mirrors.

The Ritz Hotel comes in to view around the corner, looking like Buckingham Palace in comparison to the places I normally buy food: McDonalds or Subway.

"I don't know how to act here," I say, looking around at the bright lights and fancy black cars. It was all a bit bewildering.

Sherlock leans over and brushes his lips over my cheek, so lightly I barely feel it. "Just let the bellboy take your coat, and follow me."

**I'm visualizing. The image of Sherlock in a dinner suit is a very pleasing one, as is the image of John. Mmm-mmm. Alright. Enough from me. Please please PLEASE review! Some slightly..._hotter_ romance to come soon.**

**Amy xxx**


	15. Mycroft is paying

**Second update of the night! If my mum doesn't come upstairs and bust me for being on my laptop late, you'll get a third too. Enjoy!**

I'm careful to follow Sherlock's every move once we're escorted inside. Everything's a blur of bright gold and velvet red, with smart people whisking themselves to tables laden with crystal wine decanters and roast pig big enough to feed an army. I would know.

Sherlock was right when he said someone would try and take my coat – it's pulled from my shoulders the moment I'm through the front door. I look over to Sherlock for guidance, only to see he's being helped out of his own coat by a young man dressed like an 18th century footman.

When we're considerably colder than before, we're led through to a massive restaurant room that must stretch the entire length of the building. The walls are draped with rich red curtains, and floor-to-ceilings give a view of the London night-time skyline.

In the corner there's a single table with two chairs. That's the one we're given, and after having our chairs pulled out for us, we're left alone with a menu book each. Everything's in French.

"So," I say. "Why are we here?" I drum my fingers against the menu as I look over the incoherent options. "I know it's somehow relevant to the case…"

"Molly said Mrs Cambrooke's phone was programmed with Adler's ring – there's only one place Adler would stay if she's returned to London, and that's here." Sherlock is studiously ignoring his own menu, casting his gaze around the dining hall.

I frown. "Right, then why are we at the restaurant? Won't she be in one of the rooms?"

Sherlock checks the time on his phone, earning himself a stern glare from a man wearing a monocle. Funny, I didn't think anyone actually wore those anymore. "What better place to have dinner than the hotel's own restaurant?"

I nod, understanding what he means. Of course she'll come here first. "How do you know she hasn't already eaten?"

He frowns at something I don't see. "The last time we were dealing with her I checked her timetable. Early evening clients from seven to ten, leaving little time for eating unless you want a sandwich – and she doesn't strike me as the type of person to eat those. Her next client is booked for one in the morning, meaning she'll have a couple of hours for dinner."

There's nothing much I can say to that. I detest talking about The Woman – she was too big a part of Sherlock's concentration for far too long. But Sherlock has made his…preferences quite clear since then, so I don't worry.

A waiter comes to take our order. I order the first thing I see on the menu, and Sherlock orders the most expensive, along with a bottle of champagne.

"Mycroft's paying," he reminds me.

I smile and nod. Free champagne – not something to push away when literally offered to you on a plate.

"Any sign of her yet?" I ask, joining Sherlock on his gaze around the room.

He shakes his head. "No," he murmurs.

So we wait. Not exactly an ideal first date, hunting down a high-class prostitute, but I'll take what I can get. Blimey, that sounded wrong.

~Sherlock~

When the waiter comes back with two dome-covered plates of food, I'm almost nervous about what will be under mine. Sherlock probably knows, since he can speak almost every language out there.

So I breathe a sigh of relief when the thing's taken away and I realise I've ordered spaghetti.

Sherlock's got something that looks like a fancy salad, but it doesn't matter since I know he won't be eating any of it.

Along with that there's the champagne, presented to us in a crystal decanter in a bucket of ice. Nice touch.

Then, finally, there's a note. Printed on thick ivory paper and folded once in half, the little kisses around the edge are unmistakable.

Sherlock's looking at the note in disgust; he snatches it and reads it with an angry frown before tossing it aside for me to have a look at.

_Come and catch me – Irene Adler _

I look up just in time to see Sherlock shoot out of his chair and start to give chase to the waiter.

With a groan, I get up and slalom around tables in pursuit. He's fast, but delayed by the many guests gliding about in front of him. I soon catch up to him, and together we burst out in to the hotel lobby.

We look frantically around the reception, scanning the clean white marble and clear glass desk.

"Where did she go?" I ask, frowning at the doors. The air inside isn't cold – nobody could have opened them lately.

Sherlock clutches his hair exasperatedly, his knuckles turning white. Normally I'd take both his hands in my own and keep him from turning himself bald, but this is a public place.

"Excuse me!"

We both turn. Running up to us is a waiter – not Adler – holding a notepad. When he reaches us, he's breathing alarmingly heavily.

"Excuse me," he says again, catching his breath. "You haven't paid for your meal."

Sherlock has turned calm again. "We have a tab," he tells the waiter. "Under the name Mycroft Holmes."

The waiter looks confused. "Are you a guest at the hotel…?"

"We were here for dinner," I say, before Sherlock can say something witty.

"I'll just check that for you," says the waiter, moving off to talk to someone at the reception desk.

Sherlock goes back to being agitated. "She's gone," he says. "Run again."

"Where's she going?" I ask, looking at the doors again. It's impossible – I didn't even see them swing closed.

He sighs and starts pacing back and forth. "I don't know," he admits.

I'm about to say something, but the waiter chooses that moment to make a reappearance.

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr Holmes's tab only covers expenses of hotel guests," the man says.

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I'm sorry," I begin, "there's obviously been some kind of misunderstanding…"

"We haven't checked in yet," Sherlock says.

My eyes dart over to him; he looks completely calm, blank and expressionless.

The waiter appears to be taken aback. "Oh," he says. "Have you got your rooms booked?"

"Are there any rooms going free?" Sherlock enquires. "Cost is no issue."

The man nods. "Of course, sir," he says. "Which floor would you like your rooms to be…"

"Room," Sherlock says curtly.

I flush red.

"Excuse me?" The waiter seems confused.

Sherlock fixes him with an even gaze. "We'll only be needing one room."

There's a moment's hesitation before the waiter finds the will to close his open mouth and hurry to the desk to book our room.

**Good? Next chapter I'll crack open the hot-hotel-room scene. I'm expecting a nice long review from EVERYONE.**

**Amy xxx**


	16. Two rooms

**Ok. I promised steamy, hot hotel room stuff. I know some people are only reading this story because of the romance, and I know some are reading because they don't want to see them ravishing each other too soon. So I've tried to keep it tasteful and minimalist. And to anyone who feels this isn't steamy or hot enough or whatever, please keep in mind that I am only fourteen, and therefore have no experience of sex myself, so I'm going on instinct when I write this. Enjoy!**

At the Ritz Hotel, they're too elite for keys. Instead we get little plastic cards we have to swipe to unlock the door to our room. _Our_ room. The single room. With the single bed. Jesus Christ.

We're on the very top floor, with what has to be the best view of London I've ever seen. The lights of the London Eye and Big Ben are visible through the window, and I have to admit I do spend a while just standing and staring.

Sherlock rids himself of his waistcoat, tie and jacket, then undoes the top button of his shirt and flops backwards on to the vast double bed. His arms are above his head and his legs are hanging off the end of the mattress.

"So," I say. "She's gone."

He groans and rubs his face with his hands. In the dim light from the bedside lamps he looks very pale, almost ghostly. How sickeningly ironic.

"Any idea where to find her?" I pull back the heavy velvet curtain for a better look at the scenery.

"I have a few ideas," he mutters.

I nod. The view is extraordinary. It's amazing what 6 grand can get you for a night. "Mycroft won't mind us using his money for this, will he?" I ask, not really caring whether or not Mycroft minds. This view is bloody fantastic – I'd happily take the man's wrath if it meant I could look at it for the rest of the evening.

Sherlock props himself up on his elbows so he's looking at me. "Of course not," he says. "He practically owns this place."

I scoff. "And yet we're still living in Baker Street." I finish with a grin, and Sherlock chuckles.

"There are reasons for that," he says.

"Oh yeah?" I turn away from the view and lean against the window so I can look at him. Replacing one nice view with another, better view.

Sherlock nods. "Our own kitchen at Baker Street," he says. "Space for my experiments."

I nod reluctantly. "Ok, but…"

"Two bedrooms," he continues.

I swallow hard. "Why would that matter?"

He frowns. "I thought you were against the idea of sleeping in the same room. I was going to take the sofa tonight, actually."

Now it's my turn to frown. "I don't mind, Sherlock," I say. "It's just…you always seemed to have this aversion to contact. Though I suppose that's different now…"

"Clearly."

There's a silence.

"You don't have to sleep on the sofa," I confirm.

He smiles slightly.

I can't stop myself yawning. "What time is it?" I ask, looking around for a clock.

There's a small one on the bedside table next to Sherlock. "Half eleven," he says, moving so he's lying under the covers. "I assume it's time for you to tuck me in and tell me a bedtime story?"

I roll my eyes. Adjacent to the main bedroom is a bathroom; I make for it with the intention of changing in private before I realise I have nothing to change in to.

"We didn't really think this through," I say.

Sherlock shrugs. "Sleeping in clothes is less uncomfortable than you might think."

Good, so he's not expecting me to strip down to my boxers. With a sigh I shrug off my jacket and hang it over the back of the sofa, then work on undoing my tie. That joins the jacket, and I kick off my shoes. Like Sherlock, I undo the top button of my shirt.

Then there's the issue of where to go. Sherlock is lying pretty much in the middle of the bed, not having chosen a specific side like most couples do. I'm closer to the right side of the bed, so I pad around and clamber awkwardly under the covers.

The sheets are heavy, with blankets and quilts added for comfort. Very Ritz. And the bed is warm.

Wait.

That's not the bed.

That's Sherlock.

He's moved so he's curled around me, his face touching my shoulder blade and his arms draped loosely over my waist. I'm not sure whether to be surprised or not. The man ordered one room specifically. The bastard knew this would happen.

I can feel his hot breath on the back of my neck, ruffling my hair ever so slightly. I smile through the darkness and turn around in his arms.

"Sherlock…" I murmur. I'm obviously not thinking straight, since I shift forward and press myself against him completely. I can feel the hard muscles of his chest press against mine through the thin material of both our shirts, and I silently curse the fabric for separating us.

"John." The word comes out like a breathy sigh, and it's enough to push me that little bit further.

God knows if I'm taking this too far or too fast, but I can't hold back from locking our lips together firmly and letting my eyes slip shut.

At first he's unresponsive, but then he makes a small noise against my mouth that sounds something like a grunt and something like a moan, and I know there's no going back.

Slowly, I shift so he's lying on his back and I'm straddling his waist, leaning down so as not to break the kiss.

I'm a little shocked to feel the tip of his tongue trace the line of my bottom lip, but when I've got over the surprise I open my mouth in compliance.

It's not something that's easy to imagine, Sherlock exploring the inside of my mouth like that, but it's safe to say that he has well surpassed any expectations I may have subconsciously set.

We roll sideways, and within seconds I'm lying pressed in to the mattress while he pins my hands either side of my head and continues to attack my mouth.

There's still the goddamn annoying issue of clothing, but I think we must both feel the need to get rid of it, since he pulls away from me and sits up.

I make a noise like a whimper of protest, and let me tell you it's not a noise I ever thought I'd make.

He chuckles, and it's all throaty and sexy because he hasn't been able to catch his breath yet. "A little impatient?" he asks.

I wriggle around underneath him. If he wasn't as impatient as I am, he is now.

With a flash of turquoise eyes, he runs his hands down the buttons on my shirt and works on undoing them as quickly as possible. His long, pale fingers are efficient and swift, and within moments he's helping me sit up so he can slide the shirt off my shoulders.

Then he sits back but moves a little closer up so I can reach his own shirt. My hands are far more clumsy, but eventually I'm left staring at his pale bare chest. It's corded with muscle, and warm when he lies back down on top of me.

He's clearly tired of being on top, since he rolls us over again and crashes our lips together once more. We're more urgent now, more desperate for a contact we've denied since we met.

For Sherlock, this is a contact he's been denying since…birth.

But for a man with no experience, he has a talent for wringing sounds out of me that I never thought I was capable of making.

He shifts and rocks ever so slightly against me. I know what that means. I know what he wants, I bloody sure as hell know what I want.

I reach over and flick off the lamp, then dive back down for another kiss.

**So I'm sorry if some people are disappointed with this, for whatever reason. But this is my third chapter of the night, and it's almost midnight, and I've done three pieces of homework and had school all day today, so you can't expect me to be at my best. I tried very hard to write a convincing chapter here - being inexperienced makes it difficult, and being fourteen makes you blush like crazy at the bare mention of the word 'sex'. So please please PLEASE review - I'd love to wake up tomorrow morning and have an inbox stuffed full of nice long reviews. It's one of my dreams :)**

**Amy xxx**


	17. Big window

**Hey :) I don't have much of an author's note for you today, so I'll just take the time to thank all my amazing reviewers for their support and appreciation. You guys are the best! Enjoy the chapter :)**

The next morning, I wake up before Sherlock. An advantage, in some ways. Routine spot-check. It's light outside, and the curtains are still drawn against the sun. The complimentary bottle of water on the dresser hasn't been replaced, so the maid has yet to come in.

Sherlock is sleeping soundly beside me, curled in on himself with his hands balled against his mouth like a small child. His chest is bare, and so is mine.

And then…

I lift the sheet slightly and peer under the covers. I'm not wearing my trousers anymore – they're actually hanging off the back of the sofa, for some reason I don't remember – but I am still wearing boxers. I'm not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

I'm lying pretty close to Sherlock anyway, but by shifting a few inches closer I can determine that he's also wearing his underwear. So there's definitely no danger of him waking up and getting out of bed with nothing on, which is a plus.

I lie in silence for a while, just staring up at the highly decorated ceiling. With elaborate golden swirls and mint-green, flawless paint, it's like something from an old stately home. Ritz.

Before long, I want to know what time it is. God knows when the maid will decide to walk in, but I plan on being dressed and presentable well before then. However, the alarm clock is on Sherlock's side of the bed.

And one of his arms is draped over my waist.

Slowly, trying my hardest not to disturb him, I shift in to a semi-sitting position and begin to lean towards the opposite bedside table. If it was only facing_ towards_ me, I wouldn't have to reach across…

My arm brushes against Sherlock's shoulder, and he stirs in his sleep. His eyes flutter open and look at me with all the curiosity of Alice after she stumbled in to Wonderland.

"Sorry," I whisper, feeling that strange early-morning urge to keep quiet and not disturb the silence. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

He smiles slightly and rolls on to his back, arching up and letting the sheet slip a little lower as he stretches. Now_ that_ is a nice way to wake up. "It's fine," he murmurs, yawning.

"I was just trying to get a look at the clock…" I add, still feeling guilty about disturbing him.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he looks down at me with a smile. "I said it's fine, John," he repeats, then extends an arm and runs it through my hair.

Too tired to do anything else, I lay back against the pillow and let him continue playing with my hair. It's nice to have his long fingers against my head, knotted in the sandy strands I always thought were boring. But in all honesty, Sherlock makes everything exciting.

We lie in peaceful, early-morning silence until a knock at the door jolts us both fully awake. The hazy glow surrounding the bed seems to evaporate, and suddenly we're in a race to hunt down our clothes before the door swings open.

I roll out of bed and land on the floor, half-dragging myself to the sofa to retrieve my trousers. I catch a glimpse of Sherlock's bare back as he runs to the dresser, which I appreciate immensely.

After pulling on the trousers, I find my shirt and shrug it on, then adjust the tie around my neck and slide my arms in to the jacket.

One glance at Sherlock tells me he's already dressed, hurriedly pulling the sheets back over the bed in a desperate attempt to make it appear less…slept-in.

Then the door opens.

A blandly pretty maid walks backwards in to the room, pulling after her a cart with mini-soaps and hand towels. "Good morning," she says before setting to work.

I pretend to be studiously examining my appearance in the mirror above the dresser, paying as little attention to Sherlock as possible. I know that if I risk a glance at him I'll go too far, and I'll be openly staring the whole day.

While the maid works, Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through messages. He's most likely checking his website, too, for new cases to keep him occupied after he's solved the one with The Woman.

Eventually the maid leaves, and we're all that remain in the clean room.

"That…was close," I say, raking a hand through my sticky-up hair and blowing out a breath.

He nods.

I look around the room. The maid had opened the curtains, exposing that precious skyline view. "So I suppose we have to leave today?"

Sherlock nods again. "Mycroft's patience has limits," he says. "That'll be him now, actually."

I begin to question what he means, but then my phone rings. I don't know how the hell he expected that would happen, but I don't try to figure it out. Sometimes the biggest mystery involving Sherlock Holmes is the mystery of how unbelievably talented he is.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the new text. Sure enough, it's from Mycroft, checking up on us yet again.

_What did you do? – M_

There are two ways I could interpret this. Deciding getting witty with the British Government could end up with me behind bars, I type out,

_Hotel. Case work. – JW_

I don't get a reply back, so I slip the phone back in my pocket and turn to Sherlock. "So…the case."

He's busy looking out of the window. "What about it?"

"I assume we're still looking…?"

He smirks and glides over to me, wrapping my arms around my waist from behind and smiling in to my shoulder. "It's pleasing how you think I could possibly take this long over a case," he murmurs.

At first it takes me a while to understand, but then I get it. "You already know what happened," I conclude.

"Of course," he says.

I turn around in his arms. "Go on, then," I say. "Enlighten me."

Sherlock puts on his deducing face, focused and unwavering. "Mrs Cambrooke clearly employed the services of Adler as a way of…_stimulating_ her husband, however when the man found out about these recreational activities he was, as expected, less than happy. Cambrooke herself was a noted alcoholic, which is why she covered her suicide well by positioning herself at a nightclub. She's clever – breaking her shoe to look like she was running from an attacker – but the fact the only trace of fatality is an overdose of cocaine, it's highly unlikely she was actually murdered."

As always, I can only stand and stare. "Fantastic," I say.

He smirks. "How original."

I blush, and he leans forward to kiss the tip of my nose. It feels weird, being all sentimental after what _almost_ happened last night, but I don't mind it at all.

So it's annoying as hell when my phone beeps again, and we're forced to pull apart. I sigh and check the text – another from Mycroft.

That's a big window. – M

My face wipes clean of all expression. I turn the phone around to show Sherlock the text. Together, we turn to the window.

And look out.

And look down.

And see Mycroft, staring up at us both.

**Haha, sneaky Mycroft. So yeah, please please PLEASE leave a review! My email inbox has crashed for some reason, but hopefully it'll be working tomorrow morning.**

**Amy xxx**


	18. Try and bloody argue

**Alrighty, I know it's a really short update this time, but I wanted to leave it on a bit of suspense and so this chapter couldn't ramble on for too long. I'll post another longer one in a minute. By the way, I'm visiting my mum's best friend in Bath this weekend and staying overnight, so I won't be updating Saturday evening (sorry! I wish I could do something about it but my laptop has to stay at home). However, if I'm not back too late on _Sunday_ evening, I promise to post at _leas_****_t_ two new chapters to make up for it. Enjoy!**

There is nothing – I repeat, _nothing_ – more awkward than travelling home with your gay flatmate and your gay flatmate's brother when you've only recently discovered you're gay yourself. I've had to treat men with infections in _highly_ personal places before with only my bare hands, but nothing compares to the car journey back to Baker Street. And the awkwardness was only amplified by the confined space in the backseat.

Which is why I'm so relieved when the car rolls to a stop, and Anthea opens the door. I'm the first one to spill out on to the pavement, stretching and gulping in air as if I've been underwater the whole ride home.

Sherlock uses his key to let us in, and Mycroft stalks upstairs ahead of us. I'm flatly refusing to look at Sherlock after the ordeal with _his brother seeing us kissing_, so I'm walking at the very back of the line.

The flat is empty and cold, and I curl myself up in the corner like a hermit to allow them space for their sibling rivalry.

Which, by the way, commences as soon as Sherlock closes the door.

"What were you thinking?" Mycroft hisses, banging his umbrella on the floor to indicate his distress.

Sherlock leans against the door. "I was thinking you asked me to rejoin the case."

"The case," says Mycroft, "does not involve you staying in one of London's most expensive and most _publicly recognised_ hotels."

A false smile finds its way on to Sherlock's face. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were concerned."

"I hope I haven't given the wrong impression," Mycroft seethes.

Sherlock's stare is even and cold. "Of course not."

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please clarify this for me, Sherlock," he says, very slowly and with a forced air of calm. "You used my personal, _private_ bank account to book a penthouse room in the Ritz Hotel, without my permission and without consulting Scotland Yard beforehand?"

"So you're not as ignorant as I first thought," Sherlock says, his turquoise eyes flashing.

Mycroft throws his arms up in exasperation. "Not to mention the fact you dragged John in to this, too."

I shrink back in to the corner even more, retreating until my back's pressed against a wall.

"This isn't about John!" Sherlock exclaims, unhitching himself from the door and taking a few steps forward to Mycroft.

"Oh, for goodness sake, Sherlock! This has everything to do with John!" Mycroft counters, practically yelling in his brother's face.

I back further in to my corner.

"I'd appreciate if you'd tell me HOW," Sherlock bellows.

Mycroft glares at him. "You've become so…_possessive_ over him. It's not healthy! You're distracted from your cases and one day you'll get the poor man arrested!"

Sherlock sets his jaw and clenches his fists. "What are you trying to say?" he asks.

His brother sighs. "I think it would be in everyone's best interest if John came to stay with me, until you're in a more stable condition."

"_Stable condition?_ What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock demands, folding his arms and looking down his nose at Mycroft.

"Just that you've only just come back from the dead, and already you're off on a rant about a case you barely know anything about."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm fine." Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "and John is staying here."

Mycroft shakes his head. "He's coming with me."

"It's not fair to make him choose between us!" Sherlock cries, pointing a finger in my direction.

"_Oi!"_

Everyone turns towards the door. I stand up and stare.

"He's _not_ going with you, and he's not staying here. He's coming with me. And just you bloody try and argue with me."

My jaw drops open.

"_Harry?"_

**So yeah, sorry it was so short, but I will be posting again, so it's not like I'm leaving you with something ridiculously disappointing, like the fact Mark Godtiss (yes, GODtiss), hasn't worked some Johnlock in to a script yet. Please please PLEASE review - I love reading them! **

**Amy xxx**


	19. Lifeline

**As promised, a longer chapter :) Enjoy!**_  
><em>

_Explain – SH_

_I don't know how – JW _

_Try – SH_

_I'm…sorry – JW_

_Not quite what I was looking for – SH_

_I don't know what to say, Sherlock – JW_

_Just…why did she come to the flat? – SH_

_It was arranged ages ago – JW _

_What was? – SH_

_When I was…losing it. After you left. I called her and told her I needed to get away, to live with her for a while until things cleared up – JW_

_And she's only just arrived? – SH _

_You've only just come back – JW _

_You didn't cancel? – SH_

_I forgot. A lot's happened, Sherlock – JW_

_How long will you be gone? – SH_

_Until she thinks I'm well enough to leave – JW_

_How long will that take? – SH_

_Depends, maybe I'll be let out early for good behaviour – JW_

_Doubt it – SH_

_Sarcasm – JW_

_Yes – SH_

_I'm sorry. I really am – JW_

_I understand, I suppose. Just be back soon. Mycroft's being a bitch – SH_

_Play nice, Sherlock – JW_

_No – SH_

_Then I won't come home – JW _

_Come home, John – SH_

_I want to – JW_

_So you will? – SH_

_I can't. Not yet – JW _

_I'll...I'll miss you – SH_

_I'll kiss you too – JW_

_Christ, sorry, predictive text. I meant miss. I'll miss you too – JW_

With a sigh, I slide the phone back in to my bag and lean back in my seat. The cab's rolling at five miles per hour, crawling behind a cement lorry on the M40 motorway. Harry's sitting next to me, playing a game of brickbreaker on her iPod. Her jaw is set as if she's perpetually annoyed with me – she and Sherlock should join a club.

"Where are we going?" I ask, realising with a stab of guilt that I have no idea where my own sister lives.

Without looking up, she says, "High Wycombe."

"Where's that?" I ask. I'm sure she's mentioned it in her emails, but I can't seem to place it.

"Bucks."

Buckinghamshire. Right, I get it now. Explains the reference I rambled off to Sherlock. Oh, God, Sherlock.

~Sherlock~

Eventually, the cab rolls to a stop in front of a row of terraced houses that are situated on a tall hill. It overlooks the town, and below I can see a large park and a grimy-looking hospital.

"We're number nine," she tells me, hoisting my suitcase out of the boot and dumping it by my feet on the pavement.

I nod and turn towards the house. It's basic and boxy, with an orangey brick pattern on the front wall. The door is white with rusty hinges. A window box rests underneath the window, but all the flowers planted are wilting. To her credit, Harry's managed to maintain a somewhat healthy-looking lawn, but that's all I can say for the appearance of the place.

Harry lets us in with a key she fishes out of her handbag, then holds the door open for me and waits for me to walk inside.

The house's interior is a slight improvement on its exterior. The walls are smooth and painted off-white, with a few watercolour paintings of Dorset hanging in the hall. A mirror rests above the phone table in the porch. A narrow staircase leads off the small cream living room, and the kitchen is fairly modern. However, it has its down points. There is no severed head between cartons of orange juice in the fridge. There are no test tubes leaking on the carpets. There's no mad sociopath pacing back and forth in front of the TV.

"Your room's upstairs, on the left," she says, pointing up the staircase with limited enthusiasm.

I nod. "Thanks."

Harry shrugs and trudges in to the kitchen to get herself some beer. That's another thing I don't like about this place – it reeks of alcohol. Yes, 221B may have temporarily smelt of smoke while Sherlock was trying to give up, but it was far better now.

When Harry comes back, she has two cans of coke in one hand and a beer can in the other. "Watch some TV?" she asks, sounding bored. She throws herself down on the sofa, sprawls out, and opens the beer with a hiss of bubbles.

I watch with a grimace. "No, thanks," I say. "I'm tired."

"Right."

That's all I get. No 'goodnight, John' or 'see you in the morning, John'. It's no wonder she can't hold down a boyfriend for longer than a week.

~Sherlock~

My room is the biggest letdown of all, after sleeping in the Ritz with Sherlock. The bed is so narrow I have to lie pencil-straight, and the sheets are freezing and thin. I'm shivering more when I get in to bed than when I was standing up.

On top of that, the ceiling has a mould problem, so I'm stuck staring at green patches all night. Harry's disability to hang curtains means it's incredibly difficult to shut out the lights of the Chinese takeaway next door; I'm forced to get creative and hang two of my shirts over the window.

From downstairs I can hear the TV blaring at full volume – Harry's watching 'The Only Way Is Essex'. It's as if she and Mycroft made a deal to see how long they could keep me awake before I went insane. Whoever bet on 'five minutes' is definitely going to win. I honestly detest that show – I don't think I can lie here and listen to it for the entire evening.

My only lifeline, since my laptop and mp3 player are in London, is my phone. It's sitting on the lopsided bedside table next to my untouched glass of water, still with a good half battery life.

So I do the only thing I can think of.

_This was a terrible idea – JW_

Then I lay back against the pillows and try to tune out the Essex accents while I wait for a reply.

_What's wrong? – SH_

I sigh and hold my phone close to my face, smiling like a schoolgirl as I type out a reply.

_Bad TV. Bad house. Bad everything – JW_

_Anything else? – SH_

_I miss you – JW_

_I miss you too. I can come and get you at any time – SH_

I sigh and my smile vanishes.

_I wish. You heard Harry. She'll call in a favour from her newspaper friend – JW_

_There's no way to persuade her otherwise? – SH_

_Not unless you've got fifteen grand sitting around back at Baker Street – JW_

_I doubt it. Mycroft's gone – SH_

_Good riddance – JW_

I wait for a moment before adding,

_I wouldn't have gone with him – JW_

_I know – SH_

I sigh again.

_I want to come home – JW_

_I want you to come home – SH_

_We're not going to get anywhere just wishing for things that can't happen – JW_

_Don't be all logical now – SH_

I snicker. Then a door opens on the upstairs landing, and I stuff the phone under the covers. When the footsteps have passed my door and gone in to the room next door, I cautiously pull the phone back out.

_I have to go – Harry doesn't want me talking to anyone who could be a distraction from my 'rehabilitation period' – JW_

_You're a grown man, just tell her to back off – SH_

_Sure, and I'll show you my bruises when I'm home – JW_

_You promise? – SH_

_Right, I can add that to the list – JW_

_The list? – SH_

_The list of different moods you're discovering now you've broken out of your asexual shell. 'Flirty Sherlock' can go on there – JW_

_You sound like your bloody therapist – SH_

_God, I hope not – JW_

A floorboard on the landing creaks again.

_I really have to go – JW_

_Alright. Text me tomorrow? – SH_

_Got it – JW_

__**So I accept that most of it was text, but just imagine it like a Johnlock conversation. You have to admit that's sexier. **

**Amy xxx**


	20. Crime scene

**So, I'm quite happy with how this turned out. I'm really freaked out because me and my sister have been talking about true ghost stories the whole evening, and now I'm in the dark alone, so my writing may be a bit...distracted. I've tried my best, though. Enjoy?**

The next day, Harry decides it would be a good idea to go shopping. I have a suspicion this is largely based on the face she's practically hunting in gutters for change, and my wallet's lined with cash and cards. She has been dropping several hints about her generous hospitality.

In High Wycombe, it turns out there's a substantially large shopping centre called the Eden Centre. It's nowhere near as big as somewhere like Westfield, but beggars can't be choosers. I need to get out of Harry's 'house', and if this is the closest decent place, I'll take it.

And to be honest, it's really not that bad. There are well over a hundred different shops – I think so, anyway. They range from clothing to home appliances to electronics. Along with that there are hair salons, chocolatiers, restaurants, milkshake places, coffee shops, toy shops, beauticians, pharmacies, travel agents and almost every other type of store you could think of.

As soon as we get inside, Harry heads straight for the nearest Superdrug with the pretence she wants to buy herself some mascara. Except she won't be the one paying – she'll be the one speeding around the shop gathering armfuls of stuff then pulling the old 'darn-I-forgot-my-purse' trick as soon as we get to the till.

Which is why it's so amusing to see her shell-shocked face when I claim to have no money on me.

"Sherlock carries the cash," I say, shrugging apologetically. Inside, I'm grinning like a Cheshire cat.

So, after a raging argument with a made-up cashier, Harry is forced to go back around the shop and replace everything in her basket. And let me tell you, it takes at least fifteen minutes for her to make a full round. It's almost funny how she expected me to fork over that much money for stuff I don't even understand the concept of.

She drags me from the shop with a scowl plastered on her face.

We have to stop for her to get some money out of her bank account, which brings her total down to a frightening hundred pounds. She's in a bad way. Then again, anyone who takes out £650 for a Wednesday shopping trip is bound to wind up with some serious debt.

Next she yanks me in to La Senza, where I hover near the door and avert my eyes from the endless racks of lacy bras. Seeing my sister's tits is not something on my list of things to do before I die. In fact, it's on my list of things I'd rather die before doing.

However, it's not long before the torture ends and I'm free to choose a shop of my own to visit.

So naturally, being the mature sod that I am, I choose the Waterstone's bookshop around the corner from Primark. I'm badly in need of some new reading material to save me from watching TOWIE with Harry in the evenings, so by the time we leave I've got a bagful of six thick books by a bloke called Arthur Conan Doyle.

~Sherlock~

After at least two hours longer of mindless shopping in insanely expensive places like House of Fraser, Superdry and Swarovski, Harry decides she's had enough. Thank GOD.

"Got enough for a bus?" she asks. "Don't wanna walk home with all this." She hoists the bags up for emphasis.

As it turned out, I had enough for one bus fare. I hand it over to her with a sigh and stick my hands in my pockets in full-on Sherlock sulk-mode.

When the bus comes I trudge away from the shelter and begin my journey back to her house.

The walk isn't long, but there are several steep hills to climb before I reach my destination. I decide to take a detour through the Rye park so I can at least enjoy some scenery before I'm forced back in to my sister's rat hole of a house.

And it's nice, to see little kids running around and playing on a rope setup in one corner of the park. It's not as big as the ones in London, and all the while I'm walking I'm busy comparing it to Hyde Park, but it's not small by any standards.

There's an ice cream van waiting by an old flour mill in one sun-drenched part of the park, and I can't resist sidling over to see what they've got to offer.

99 flakes. I haven't had a 99 flake in…well, a long time. So I fish the required amount of coins out of my pocket and hand it over to the woman in the van, then gain my ice cream cone in return.

I eat it slowly as I'm walking, savouring the taste of something truly edible. Most of Harry's meals consist of greasy Chinese takeaways and fatty pizzas from a small delivery company, so it's nice to eat something that tastes like it's been made the same day as you've purchased it.

As I'm closing the gate behind me and turning around to walk out of the park, I bump in to someone coming the other way.

It's a tall man, with coppery, red-blonde hair and deep brown eyes. His skin is tanned as if he's been in the sun for a year, and he's got light stubble over his jaw and upper lip. I've honestly never seen him before in my life, but there's something about his cheekbones that bring back ever-present memories of Sherlock.

Jesus Christ, I miss him.

~Sherlock~

I stand and stare. There is _police tape_ surrounding my sister's house. Police tape, and several police cars.

Harry herself is standing on the front patio with her shopping bags sprawled out around her, yelling and swearing until her face turns red at a poor man wearing a bright yellow vest.

"Harry!" I say, running up and putting a hand on her shoulder to try and calm her down.

She shakes me off as if I've scorched her skin through her shirt. "What the hell's going on here, you f-ing bastard?"

I frown. "What?"

"Alright, clear it up, boys!"

I turn towards the front door of the house. Standing in the frame is a man in a beige coat and white shirt, taking off a pair of dark sunglasses. Oh, bloody hell, thank God.

"John Watson?"

Lestrade strides towards me and puts on his bad-news police face. There's a certain look in his eyes, something I know I'm supposed to pick up on…

"John Hamish Watson, you are hereby charged with illegally downloading media from the internet under direct violation of the Online Service Act of 2001."

Harry almost explodes with rage. "I knew it!" she rants. "Jesus Christ, John! You're sick!" She stalks away and rips through the police tape, muttering, "bloody pervert," under her breath.

Lestrade holds my arms firmly and shoves me in to the back of a waiting police car, then gets in after me and slams the door shut.

"Drive," he orders the man at the wheel.

~Sherlock~

I stay completely silent until we've pulled out on to the motorway and started speeding away past Dreams bed store and Tesco superstore.

"I had a bag," I say.

Lestrade, still talking in hushed voices on his phone, points at the back of the car and mouths 'in the boot'.

I nod and go back to staring out of the window.

"Yeah, I've got him," Lestrade says, chewing on his thumbnail while he listens to the person on the other end of the line.

"Mhm. Bringing him home now."

_Sherlock_. He's talking to Sherlock. Just the thought that I might soon be home with him makes my heart flutter stereotypically in my chest.

~Sherlock~

So you can imagine my utter soul-crushing disappointment when I'm dragged from the car by Lestrade and the driver, tugged up the steps of a large house, led in to a richly decorated living room, and sat down in a wing-backed armchair.

"John. How nice of you to join us."

Mycroft sets his paper down and smiles at me mockingly.

**Poor John can't get a break. So yeah, some Mystrade to come, methinks. Please please PLEASE leave a review, maybe some reassurance that ghosts AREN'T REAL AND AREN'T COMING TO SCARE THE LIVING HELL OUT OF ME. Thanks, much appreciated :)**

**Amy xxx**


	21. Come and get me

**Okay, last chapter of the night. I've set a new record - 4 NEW CHAPTER UPDATES IN ONE NIGHT! WOO HOO! For that, I deserve reviews :D Enjoy!**

I can only stare at him. "What…?"

With a sigh, Mycroft crosses one of his legs over the other and links his fingers together in his lap. "You understand, this is purely for your own benefit."

That seems to be my breaking point. "My own benefit?"

Mycroft looks up. "Greg, why don't you go and make us some tea?"

Lestrade nods and walks out of the room briskly, as if he can't wait to get out quickly enough. I can relate.

When we're alone, Mycroft continues trying to coax me in to believing he's done this for me. However, without Lestrade in the room, I find it easier to argue my case.

"You've seen me and Sherlock, right," I say, fixing him with an unwavering stare. "So you _know_ how hard it will be for me to be back in London, but stopped from seeing him."

Mycroft nods calmly. "I know."

That throws me for a while. I can't really believe I'm hearing this. "But you're going to let it happen anyway."

"Yes," says Mycroft, nodding his assent.

I rub my temples; I'm getting a splitting headache.

Mycroft leans forward. "You have to understand, John," he says. "This really is in your best interest."

"Go on, then," I mutter. "How is this so bloody beneficial?"

"I know that, when Sherlock faked his death, you were very upset. And when he came back, it brought to light some…_hidden_ feelings. But Sherlock isn't used to emotion – his brain is still working at full force trying to process all this. By staying with him, you're only putting yourself in danger. He'll be reckless this way until he's calmed down. We have to allow him time."

I frown. "Ok," I say. "Let me get this straight. You want me to live here until Sherlock gets over his…romantic emotions?"

Mycroft smiles at my understanding. "Precisely."

I sit back in my chair and touch my fingertips together the way Sherlock does when he's thinking. "You don't approve of my relationship with your brother, do you?" I accuse.

"It's not that." Mycroft shakes his head. "I wouldn't approve of Sherlock's relationship with anyone."

I frown. "Why?"

Mycroft sighs. "When he was younger – when we were both younger – our parents were very rarely around. I used to fill that void by acting as a parental figure myself – I suppose every child has their own way of dealing with those situations. Sherlock, however, seemed to alienate himself from other children his own age, and latch on to his schoolwork. But one year he met Daisy."

I frown. "Who's Daisy?"

"A girl. A young girl who was interested in Sherlock despite all his oddities. Now Daisy…she began to pay an interest when they were both seventeen, which as you know is a year over the legal age for a sexual relationship."

I nod.

"Well, Daisy became almost obsessive. She would follow Sherlock, convince her friends she was in a relationship with him and even leave extensive phone messages that I'd find on our answering machine every morning."

"Sounds like an over-excited fangirl."

Mycroft smiles faintly. "It got to the point where she would wait by the house at night, to catch Sherlock when he got back in from sixth-form college. I tried telling her to leave, but she stood her ground."

"So what happened?" It's terrible, but I'm actually getting in to this story now. It's like a bad episode of Coronation Street.

"Well one night, Sherlock was naïve enough to invite her inside, intent on expressing how he was uninterested in a relationship with her."

"God." I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose.

Mycroft nods. "Naturally, she attacked him the moment they were in his room. I found them as she was in the process of removing his underwear. It's more than I ever wanted to see of my brother, I'll tell you that."

"I know how you feel," I mutter, remembering Harry in the bra shop with a shudder.

Mycroft sighs. "Daisy ruined things for him. He hasn't been interested in a relationship since then." He pauses, and tilts his head to one side. "Until he met you."

Lestrade comes back in and sets a mug of tea down on the table next to me, under the glow of a lamp.

I take it in my hands. "Well," I say, gulping down some tea. "I would never do that to Sherlock."

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. "Oh? Then I suppose this is the part where you tell me what I saw through the window wasn't at all what it looked like."

I look down at my lap, my cheeks burning. "Now, I can't tell you that, exactly…"

"Go on." Mycroft looks vaguely amused by my embarrassment.

I swallow hard. "We didn't…we didn't do…_that_."

Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up in to his hairline. "Oh?" he says again.

I nod. "I know how it sounds, with the two of us sharing a bed, but that's all we were doing. Sharing. Nothing else." Alright, so not strictly speaking true, but at least both of us woke up with our underwear _on_.

Mycroft nods slowly. "Ok," he says. "Well, I suppose you're no Daisy. I approve."

For some reason, that fills me with a sense of relief and deep satisfaction.

"I'll have Anthea show you to your room," Mycroft continues, taking out his phone and typing out a quick text.

~Sherlock~

The room is far nicer than the one at Harry's house; there's a rich golden cover on the bed with a matching quilt, and dark black-wood furniture that's been polished and buffed and dusted recently. A large mirror sits on top of the dresser, and velvet gold curtains hang over the windows. The carpet on the floor, instead of the worn scratchy stuff like at Harry's house, is plush and soft cream.

So it's no surprise that I sink in to the bed the moment I lie down, burying my head in the pillows with a sigh.

But then I remember something.

The phone.

_Sherlock._

Reaching for my bag, I unzip the front pouch and take out my phone. There's still the smallest ounce of battery left.

I hunt through my contacts quickly until I find Sherlock's number, then compose a text.

_Sherlock? – JW_

I don't have to wait long at all for a reply.

_John? What happened? Are you alright? – SH_

_In a sense, yeah – JW_

_What's going on? – SH_

_Do you know where your brother lives? – JW_

_Of course – SH_

_Come and get me? – JW_

_You're _there?_ – SH_

_Come and get me, Sherlock - JW_

__**Will they be able to reunite? I need reviews! Lots of 'em, and pretty Grimm ones too ;) Nah, I'm joking, I like nice LONG reviews *hint hint*.**

**Amy x x x**


	22. Balcony

**I can't update tonight because I'm out at my mum's friend's house in Bath, but I feel bad leaving you with nothing so I'm going to put this chapter up now. Enjoy!**

When my phone finally dies and I'm left lying in the dark, I try and get some sleep. Granted, I do feel safer with the knowledge Sherlock is trying to find me. However, he does have the near-impossible challenge of fighting his way past Mycroftian security forces.

God help us all.

Then, from the room next door, I hear voices. The bed I'm lying on is very conveniently placed against the wall that borders Mycroft's bedroom, so I'm able to make out basic sentences.

"…he ok?"

"…don't know…misses Sherlock…wants to leave…"

Wait, that's not the wall stopping me hearing. Whoever's in there just isn't speaking in full sentences. Why?

"…let him go?"

"…not yet…has to stay here…"

There's a thump, and I frown through the darkness. I'm on my knees now, with my ear pressed against the door. It would be helpful if I had a glass to use, but since there isn't one around I have to make do with staying completely silent so I can hear.

"…we're not alone with him here…"

"…I know…I'm sorry…"

The bed against the wall creaks. I know one of those people is Mycroft, and the other one is undoubtedly a man. But who?

I wish I hadn't asked that.

"…Mycroft…"

"…Gregory…"

_Jesus Christ_. Lestrade. Why am I not surprised?

After that there's just a lot of rustling and creaking, so I pull one of the feather pillows over my head and try to block out the noise.

~Sherlock~

I would have thought I'd be used to awkward morning-after type breakfasts, but I'm clearly not.

When I come downstairs in the morning, Mycroft is fully dressed and leaning against the kitchen unit. Lestrade is wearing a loose t-shirt and tracksuit trousers, sitting at the table and eating a bowl of cornflakes.

I clear my throat to indicate that I'm standing there, since Mycroft seems to absorbed in watching Lestrade eat breakfast to notice me.

"Good morning, John," he says eventually, looking up.

Lestrade nods in my direction. "Morning," he says around a mouthful of cornflakes.

I continue to hover awkwardly in the doorway.

"I trust you slept well?" says Mycroft.

Then he must have trust issues. "Fine, thanks," I lie.

There's an awkward silence.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Mycroft asks, looking around at the spotless kitchen as if he could magically make a full English breakfast appear on the unit.

I swallow hard. I don't think I can stomach eating anything after last night. "No, thanks," I say. "I…I think I need some air."

Mycroft nods slowly, but there's a hint of suspicion in his eyes. Quite rightly, too – I haven't mentioned Sherlock once this morning.

So without another word, I turn on my heel and leave the room.

~Sherlock~

I don't know where to go now. I know for a fact Mycroft has several men waiting at both the front and back door to prevent me leaving the building, but I don't want to stay inside.

Then I remember the view from the front of the house when I'd been dragged from the taxi. There's a balcony up on the third floor, overlooking the back garden. It's perfect.

The walk upstairs is enjoyable; Mycroft's walls are lines with photos of him and Sherlock when they were younger. There are similarities between them then and now: Sherlock's hair was always dark and curly and Mycroft always stood tall with his head up high.

The further I walk up the stairs, the older they both get. The photos at the very base of the staircase were baby pictures, but as I'm almost on the third floor, I'm seeing ones from Sherlock's teenage years. He was a good looking teenager, too – not plagued by spots or greasy hair or anything like the normal teenagers have to deal with.

He was plagued by one thing, however. His shadow. His female shadow with a petite form and curly blonde hair.

She's in the very last picture of the lot. The main focus is clearly supposed to be Mycroft holding an umbrella over Sherlock while he sits and writes something in a notebook, leaning against a tree in the garden. However, in the background, the figure of Daisy can be seen lurking behind a hedge.

I'm not sure how to feel about it. Hearing Mycroft telling the story was one thing, but actually seeing it was something else altogether. It made it seem more…real. More like it actually happened, and it's not just a ghost of the past.

With a shake of my head, I continue on up the stairs until I'm on the third floor. Now all I have to do is find the room with the balcony.

I remember it being somewhere in the centre of the building, so I head down the corridor for a little while before I start opening doors.

The first room I find is a home gym, with a treadmill and exercise bike. I close the door to that one with a shudder, suppressing mental images of Mycroft in lycra shorts.

Next I stumble across a spare bedroom, simply made up with white sheets on the bed and pale oak furniture. The only window is about a metre across, and there's no door to lead out on to a balcony.

The final room in the row must be a music room; there's a great ivory piano standing in one corner, and dotted around the room are cellos, violins, clarinets, saxophones, guitars and even trumpets. A drum kit rests off to one side, and I have a schoolboy urge to go over and hit the biggest drum of the lot.

But then I see the French doors that lead out on to the balcony, and I'm distracted from the musical instruments.

The sun spills through the doors invitingly, and when I push them open there's a rush of warm air that floods the room and ruffles my hair.

The view of the back garden is nice – not as nice as the Ritz, but still pretty damn good. It's obviously been looked after, with a clipped green lawn and trimmed hedges all around. Colourful flowers are planted in neat beds.

I sigh and let the sun heat my face, tilting my head upwards and leaning on the stone balcony railing.

Then there's a noise like a hedge strimmer with something stuck in it, coming from the garden below.

With a frown I look down and see if I can figure out what's going on. I'm partially right – someone is using a hedge strimmer, but I don't think there's anything stuck in it.

It's a gardener with blue overalls and a cap that reads 'I love London'. At first I try my best to ignore him, but then he cuts off the hedge strimmer and looks up.

And he waves.

Why would a gardener be waving at me?

He takes off his cap and I see why.

It's Sherlock.

**Sorry it's only one chapter and sorry it's not very good, but at least it's something. Now I have to go catch a train to bath. Please please PLEASE leave me some reviews for me to find tomorrow!**

**Amy xxx**


	23. Sergeant

**Hello everyone :) Alright, can I just say how sorry I am? I got back from Bath quite late Sunday evening, and I couldn't bring myself to do anything but crawl in to bed and fall asleep. Monday I was off school ill, and spent most of my day buried under a mountain of blankets and watching Sherlock reruns on Sky+. Tuesday it was my GCSE options evening at school, so I was out (I've chosen media, history and art, if anyone's interested or can give me some feedback if they're doing one of those courses themselves). However, it is Wednesday now, and there are no more excuses I can give. So...enjoy!**

What do I do now? There are guards lining the outside of the house like it's bloody Buckingham Palace, and I can't sneak out downstairs without running in to half or all of Mystrade.

One glance down at the garden tells me Sherlock is back in character, his cap back on his head and his head lowered to the ground. Good, so at least he knows this has to be covert. Sadly, 'subtle' is not a word that appears in Sherlock's dictionary.

With a quick glance around I close the French doors and disappear back inside the music room. I don't want to see whatever train wreck plan Sherlock's put together unfolding before my eyes.

Now I have to decide where to go. I could drift downstairs and hope I don't bump in to Lestrade or Mycroft – I've had more than my fair share of awkwardness for one morning – or I could continue mooching about different rooms. What a choice.

~Sherlock~

In the end I decide, after much speculation, to go downstairs. I figure that if I'm going to run in to one of the two men who happened to be noisily sharing a bed yesterday evening, I might as well grit my teeth and get it over with.

There's a TV downstairs, and I settle myself on the sofa in front of it and pick up the remote. I doubt there's anything good on, but you never know.

"Ah, John."

I sigh internally and turn around. Standing in the doorway is Mycroft, leaning against the frame.

"Mycroft," I say, nodding in acknowledgement. _Please leave me alone._

"I'm glad to see you're settling in," he continues, walking around the edge of the sofa and coming to take a seat next to me. "I was beginning to think you'd never accept this arrangement."

Involuntarily, I glance in the direction of the garden. "Oh, I accept it," I say, not doing my best to sound as convincing as possible.

Mycroft smiles and leans back. "Good, good," he says, then goes on to talk about trust and reliability.

I'm only half listening, with most of my attention focused on the door and the windows. How the hell does Sherlock plan to get in here?

It's not long before I find out.

"Sir!" A security guard bursts in to the room, sweaty and dishevelled. Mycroft sits up, alert. "Sir, there's been a breach in the north wing!"

I have to honestly fight to stop a grin spreading out over my face. Here we go…

Mycroft frowns and stands up. "What happened?"

"One of the windows has been broken from the outside, but nothing else is touched," pants the guard. "We're doing a sweep search of the house…"

"No time," says Mycroft, heading for the door. "We have to stop him before he gets here."

Stop who? Oh, my God.

"For your own good, John," Mycroft repeats, stepping out in to the hallway and shutting the door behind him, leaving me closed in the room.

I jump up and dart to the door. "Wait!" I cry.

But it's locked.

I try everything I can think of – pulling on the handle, beating my hands against the door, even kicking it hard enough it rattles, but the thing doesn't open.

Unable to grasp anything else to do, I give up and yell, "Sherlock!"

I yell it at the top of my voice, so loud I bet they can hear me in Chelsea.

"_Sherlock!" _

I continue beating the flats of my hands against the door in desperation.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock!"

I throw all my weight against the door, shoulder-first, but before there's any impact the door swings open and I fall out in to the corridor.

Somebody catches me before I hit the ground. Someone wearing overalls, but no cap.

"John?"

I look up. Oh, thank God.

"Sherlock," I breathe, clutching the sleeve of his ridiculous clothes and burying my face in the crook of his arm. He smells like Baker Street.

Then I'm being tugged to my feet, and Sherlock's putting both his arms around me. "John, thank God," he murmurs, pressing his mouth against my hair. His breath is warm.

"Sherlock," I say, trying to break through the blissful hazy cloud distracting me from my priorities. "Sherlock, Mycroft's coming after you…"

But it's too late.

"Little brother!" greets Mycroft, standing at the end of the corridor and leaning on his umbrella. He's surrounded by several guards. Guards with guns.

I shrink in to Sherlock, shying away from the weapons. They remind me of war.

"Mycroft," Sherlock says, starting calmly and reasonably.

Mycroft holds up a hand to silence him, and the guards shift so the guns are trained on us. "Sherlock, don't try and argue with me on this. You know what we agreed."

"You stole John from me," says Sherlock, his grip on me tightening. I can't say I mind.

Mycroft sighs and rolls his head back. "It's not stealing if it's for the best," he says.

"Why?" Sherlock demands abruptly, frowning at his brother. "Why are you doing this?"

I look up. I don't want to do this. I shouldn't do this. But I have to do this. "Daisy," I say.

Sherlock's face sort of…contorts, like he's in pain. I instantly feel a stab of guilt for saying her name.

Mycroft looks exasperated. "Thank you for your input, John."

"What's he talking about?" asks Sherlock. "What does he mean?"

Then he says the thing that shocks me the most.

"Who's _Daisy?"_

With a sigh, Mycroft motions for the guards to ease off. Then he takes a few steps closer to us. Sherlock backs up, taking me with him.

"I had to convince John it was best for him to stay here…" he begins slowly.

Sherlock's persistent. "Who. Is. Daisy?" He looks down at me, still buried under his arm. "John, who is she?"

I swallow hard. "Mycroft said she was…a girl. A girl who sort of…followed you. When you were younger."

Sherlock's adorable frown makes its appearance. "Followed me?"

I cough in to my sleeve. "Forced herself on to you, really."

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You made up a _stalker_ for me?" demands Sherlock of his brother, his face livid. "You took John away from me and told him it was for the best, and invented some lie to wrap the truth in to…cover it?"

I frown, too. "Wait," I say, twisting in Sherlock's grasp to get a look at Mycroft. "If you don't want me to stay away from him because of 'Daisy', why _do_ you want me away from him?"

Mycroft looks around at all of us. "Because," he says. "Because of Sergeant Anderson."

**I'm really not that good at cliffhangers. Anyways, please please PLEASE review, and I'll try and post another chapter tonight. You guys deserve it - you've been very patient with me. **

**Amy xxx**


	24. Doing it

**Hey :) Second nightly update here. So yeah, thanks for the GCSE help everyone who replied! The subjects I'll be looking at in History are 'medicines through the ages' and 'the Vietnam war'. Sounds interesting, so I have high hopes. Anyways, I've left you cliffhanging long enough – ENJOY!**

"Sergeant Anderson? What the hell does Anderson have to do with this?" Sherlock demanded, moving his arm from around me and instead just holding my hand tightly. His fingers are cool and strong. God, I've missed him.

"When I found you at the Ritz, it appears he was across the road. As a police officer, you must understand he has a lot of highly technological equipments…"

"He had a camera," I state bluntly.

Mycroft nods. "He managed to take a substantial number of photographs of the two of you."

"The world's going to find out about us eventually, Mycroft," sighs Sherlock.

Mycroft nods slowly. "But," he says. "Will they find out that Sherlock never really died?"

"Of course," says Sherlock. "In their own time."

"With these photographs, the world will know all too soon. I thought it best to keep the two of you apart until things settled down. Sherlock has no reason to leave the flat unless you're with him."

Sherlock looks strangely calm. He even smiles. Yes, that's a definite smile. However, there's something in his eyes that's almost…manic. "Yes," he says. "Thank you, Mycroft. I hadn't realised the gravity of the situation."

I barely notice it, but he takes the tiniest step backwards.

"I apologise for my interference."

Another step.

"I'll just be leaving…"

And before I know it, he's yanking on my arm and dragging me at full speed down the corridor. I only register what's happening when I hear Mycroft say, "Find them."

~Sherlock~

Sherlock seems to know his way around Mycroft's house as if it's his own. We weave through corridors and hallways, duck through open doorways and even hide in attic spaces while guards race past below. Sherlock doesn't let go of my hand the entire time.

At one point we're hiding in the music room under the piano, and Sherlock whispers to me.

"Who's Daisy?"

I look up at him. He's sort of wrapped around me, forming a little protective shell. "I already told you," I say. "She's a girl who followed you home, and one day she tried to…well she tried to…"

"You don't need to say it," he says. "I know what you mean."

I look alarmed. "You do?"

He nods, looking serious. "Of course," he says. "It's not uncommon for a woman to find a certain attractive trait in my deduction skills…"

With a sigh, I shake my head and look down at my lap. "Sherlock…"

He smirks. "You know I'm joking," he says, shifting closer to me. "Although I appreciate the fact you were trying to protect my innocence. Mind virtue."

I chuckle quietly. "We're stuck here, aren't we?" I sigh.

"I don't know," he replies, putting an arm around me and pressing his cheek to my hair. "I do know one thing, though."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm. I'm going to murder Anderson when we get out of here."

~Sherlock~

In the end we escape by cramming ourselves in to the dumb waiter and riding it down to the basement, where we break out by smashing away the glass window panes and shimmying down the drainpipe until we're in the back garden. Then we run together, ducking through hedges until we reach the main road.

"Cab?" I ask, already tired.

Sherlock shakes his head, looking around agitatedly. "Can't," he says. "Too risky. Mycroft will have tipped off every taxi driver within five miles of this place."

I sigh. "Walk?"

He nods. "Walk."

So we walk. Speed-walking, really, with a lot of taking detours down disused alleys to avoid catching the eyes of passers-by.

However, we stop when we get to one house in particular.

"Sherlock?" I ask. "Why did we stop?"

Sherlock smiles up at the house, then strides up the steps and rings the doorbell.

I stare at him like he's crazy, which he might well be. What's he thinking? He's supposed to be bloody _dead._

The door clicks open, and someone emerges on to the front porch.

"What are you doing here, freak?"

Sherlock beams at the man. "Hello, Anderson! So good to see you!"

Anderson, looking perpetually bored, leans against the doorframe with his arms folded. "What do you want?"

"Nothing much." Sherlock's hand whips out and punches Anderson's face with a resounding 'crack'.

Anderson staggers back, clutching his cheek and yelling.

Sherlock seems pleased; he slams the door in Anderson's face and we take off running again.

~Sherlock~

Back at Baker Street, Mrs Hudson lets us in through the back door, since that's the way we stumbled out of an alley.

"John, dear!" she exclaims. "Good to see you back! I'll pop the kettle on, shall I?"

I smile at her. She's another remnant of what I've been missing for weeks now, ever since I'd gone to live with Harry. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson," I say.

She wags her finger at me. "I'm not your housekeeper, mind you," she tuts.

"I know you're not, Mrs Hudson," I say, still smiling wearily. "I know you're not."

Then Sherlock leads me upstairs, and I collapse in to my special armchair with a sigh of relief and exhaustion.

"God," says Sherlock, looking down at me with a puzzled expression. "You seem tired."

I try to smile, but fail. "I am," I tell him. "I barely got any sleep last night."

I sense him kneeling down next to my armchair, even if I can't see him through my closed eyelids. "What happened?" He starts gently pulling his fingers through my hair. I suppress a happy shudder.

"Mycroft," I murmur. "And Lestrade. Doing it."

His fingers slow. "Doing it?"

I smirk. "Still got some of that mind virtue, then."

Sherlock sighs and continues combing through my hair. "The night before? With Harry?"

I shiver. "TOWIE reruns."

He chuckles softly.

Then I remember something. I open my eyes and blink at him. "Sherlock, you punched Anderson…"

He nods, glowing pride.

"Let me see your hand."

With a little frown – an adorable one – he puts his hand up on the arm of the sofa for my inspection. As I suspected, his knuckles are red and bleeding.

"God, Sherlock," I say, kissing them very gently. "Do they hurt?"

He looks considerate. "Not massively," he says. "I think it's worth it, to have seen Anderson's face."

I sigh, but can't help the grin that pulls my mouth up. "Come on," I say, standing up and indicating for him to sit down in my place. "Let's get those cleaned up."

The adorable frown is back. "But…you're tired."

I hover halfway between the kitchen and the living room. Then I quickly scoot back over, kiss the end of his nose, and say, "We'll take care of each other. Let me help you, then you can take care of me."

**Ending on some fluff :) Next chapter: how Sherlock takes care of John. I got 40 reviews in one night last Saturday - time to beat that record, guys! REVIEW! Nice LOOONNNGGG reviews!**

**Amy xxx**


	25. Taking care of John

**Hey :) Single chapter update tonight, but it is a slightly longer one than normal, and as you'll later see - it is absolutely FULL of FLUFFY SMUT. I've tried my best to make them as cute and adorable and fangirling-worthy as possible, so enjoy!**

When I'm done cleaning his hands, Sherlock thanks me and plants a somewhat clumsy kiss on my cheek.

I go and put away the little jar of ibuprofen tablets while Sherlock fusses around in the living room, rearranging things.

When I come back in he's already sitting on the sofa; he smiles and pats the space next to him. I go and join him, leaning against his side. God, he's so warm. I've missed him so much.

On TV, the channel's been changed to Downton Abbey without my having to touch the remote. How does he know I like this show?

"Do you need anything?" he asks, brushing some hair away from my forehead. "I can go and get that tea from Mrs Hudson."

Normally I'd tell him he doesn't have to go, but right now I'm so in need of tea that I'm not thinking straight. So I nod sleepily and yawn.

Sherlock chuckles and eases off the sofa, careful not to disturb the way I'm sitting. Then he disappears downstairs and reappears momentarily holding two mugs of tea.

"Thank you," I mumble, taking mine from him and immediately gulping down a steaming hot mouthful.

He watches me with a deep expression in his eyes that I can't seem to place. Definitely concern, and…love? I've seen many sides to Sherlock Holmes – some of which I wish I hadn't seen – but love is a rarity. A treasured rarity, in my eyes.

I set the mug down on the coffee table when I'm finished, then yawn again and rub my eyes. I probably look like a sleepy child, but I really don't care.

"You should lie down," Sherlock tells me, leaning back against the sofa.

Since it's a sound invitation, I lie sideways with my head in his lap. Again, he starts running his long fingers through the strands of my hair. I suppress another happy shudder. My whole body feels warm, and safe, and heavy. A pleasant drowsiness that I welcome with the knowledge Sherlock is here with me.

"Do you need to sleep?" he asks, leaning down and kissing my forehead in several different places, very gently.

I shake my head, and instantly regret it when I feel him tense up. So perhaps applying pressure to his crotch wasn't the kindest of ideas. I make sure to stay still from then on. "Just resting," I murmur.

Sherlock brushes his thumb over my cheek; it feels so nice, it's lulling me in to a hazy half-consciousness.

"Can we talk?" I ask quietly, curling up in to a tight ball and holding my arms close to my head. I must _really_ look like a little kid.

I can almost feel him frown. "About what?" he asks, sounding concerned.

I make a little noise in the back of my throat that even I can't identify. "Anything," I whisper. "Just…please talk. I missed you talking."

His hand carries on tracing patterns on my face while he laughs quietly. "Alright," he murmurs. "What would you like me to say to you?"

"Tell me about what you did, while I was away," I suggest. "Something happy."

I hear him sigh. "There's no happy moment without you." Another kiss to my cheek, very close to the corner of my lips.

I snuggle up closer to him. "Try," I plead.

"I could tell you a story," he offers. "A true story, about something that really did happen while you were gone."

I stop myself nodding just in time, and instead settle for saying, "Thank you." Then I wait patiently for him to begin.

Sherlock pulls his fingers absently through my hair as he talks; it's very comforting. "Well, a few days after you left with Harry, I was very, very bored."

I chuckle sleepily, and he smiles and kisses the end of my nose before going back to the story.

"So on the third day, Mrs Hudson came up and found me shooting at the wall. She was understandably angry, and asked what she could do to keep my occupied. I told her that only you knew how to stop me from being bored, so she said 'what does John do, then?' And I listed all the things you do to keep me entertained."

I smile. "So what did you end up doing?" I murmur.

Sherlock leans down so his mouth is very close to my ear, then whispers, "We played Cluedo."

I groan and bury my face in his lap, laughing weakly. "Why, Sherlock?" I ask, my voice muffled by the fabric of his trousers. "Why put her through that?"

He chuckles and sits up straight with a contented sigh. "It was fun," he muses. "But I prefer playing with you."

Since I've already made the point that he may have some essence of innocence remaining, I don't comment on how that last statement sounds wrong.

Instead I ask, "Did you win?"

Sherlock clears his throat. "I…"

I twist around so I'm lying on my back looking up at him, and grin. "You lost, didn't you, Sherlock?"

He coughs. "I merely let her win," he says. "I felt bad for her, having to put up with keeping me from boredom."

I sigh and reach up a hand to cup his cheek. "Nobody has to 'put up' with you, Sherlock," I murmur.

He scoffs and rolls his head back against the sofa, leaving my fingers lingering at the base of his throat. "You're lying," he accuses. "You've heard Donnovan, and Anderson…"

I roll my eyes. "The last I remember, you were smacking Anderson round the face."

Sherlock sighs. "You've heard what they call me, John. I'm not the easiest person to spend time around…"

Despite how tired I am, I manage to hoist myself up in to a kneeling position. Then I grasp his face in both my hands and force him to look me dead in the eye.

"You're an amazing person, Sherlock," I say sincerely, praying he realises how serious I am. "If not to anyone else, then to me. To me, you're the _only_ person I'd want to spend time around."

There's a few moments of silence, and I'm temporarily filled with a cold dread that I've said something wrong. But then he grips my shoulders, pulls me forward, and crashes his lips to mine.

I lean in to him, half out of relief he's accepted the truth and half out of honest weariness. He's warm and safe and soft, and I find myself melting in to the circle his arms make.

"John," he murmurs against my mouth, his eyelashes sweeping my cheek. "I've missed you so, so much."

I nod, pressing myself closer still. "Me too," I say, almost breathless. He hasn't really given me a chance to come up for air.

His arms tighten around me, and my fingers knot in his hair. I feel the tip of his tongue trace my bottom lip, and I open my mouth a little wider. It's the Ritz all over again, and it's something I've been waiting for for a long time.

"John…" he says again, placing both hands on my chest and pushing me back gently. "You haven't slept, and you're not me – you need to rest."

I try to hide my disappointment. I was enjoying that. "Ok," I say, beginning to slide off the sofa.

He stops me with a single word.

"Bed?"

I look up. What does he mean? My bed, or his bed? Or separate beds, just at the same time? Lost for anything else to do, I simply swallow a lump in my throat. "Together?"

The corner of his mouth curves upwards. "Of course," he says. "Come on, solider."

Then he's standing next to me, slipping an arm around my waist to help me stand as we walk towards my bedroom together.

And I almost tear up when I see what it's like inside.

Everything's untouched, mostly, with the single exception on my bed. The covers are rumpled and the pillows dented, as if someone has slept in there recently. And then I get it.

I look up at Sherlock with wide, inquisitive eyes.

He casts his eyes over the bed. "I really, really missed you," he whispers, half to himself.

I leave his side and go to climb on to the bed, shuffling over to one side and pulling the duvet over me. Then I roll over on to my side so I'm facing him.

"Are you going to stay?" I ask, making no attempt to mask the hopeful note in my voice.

Instead of answering, he slides in to the bed next to me and tugs the duvet so we're sharing, even though he leaves me with more. Then his arms go around me, my face is buried in the crook of his neck, and I drift off to sleep for the first time in days.

**How was it? Fluffy enough? Adorable enough? Smutty enough? I NEED REVIEWS! Reviews are to me what tea is to John, and what fresh new cases are to Sherlock. So...I demand a review from every single reader. I have Moriarty backing me up on this.**

**Amy xxx**


	26. Dreams

**Time I updated again, don't you think? Now, this is hard to say, but it needs saying: this fanfic is almost over. There'll come a time, quite soon, when Sherlock solves the case and the whole thing draws to a close. This may happen in the next few chapters, so BE PREPARED. However, I enjoy writing for Sherlock sooooo much, I really want to continue. So here is my plea to YOU. **

**I want you to submit to me your best ideas for a Sherlock fanfiction. Ever thought of writing one but never had the energy or will to get it started? Now's your chance! Just PM me your ideas and I'll turn the best one in to a story just like this one!**

**A few rules:**

**1 - There must be some kind of Johnlock pairing involved, whether it's post-Reichenbach or an established relationship.**

**2 - Stories must focus on John and Sherlock, however minor plots involving other characters are allowed. **

**3 - Stories must not be too out of character (so no feminising the characters or turning them in to transvestites or something, ok?)**

**So yeah, get PMing! **

You know when you're dreaming you sometimes lose all sense of what's real and what's not? Maybe you don't get that, but I do.

That's what it was like for me now. There are clear, vivid images in my mind, but I have no way of telling whether or not they're actually happening as I sleep.

_Sherlock's standing by the window, his back facing the door. He's got his violin propped under his chin, and he's wringing sweet music out of the instrument when the door clicks open._

"_I've missed you, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock stops playing. Slowly, he lets the violin dangle by his side. He's standing very tall and stiff-shouldered, full of tension. "Miss Adler." His voice is monotone, indifferent. _

_I feel someone sit down next to me. Someone smelling strongly of vanilla perfume and hairspray. _

"_I thought I'd come and see how you're doing," says Adler, crossing her pale thin legs. _

_Sherlock spins around on his heel. "I'm doing just fine, which is more than can be said for you."_

"_Oh?" Adler sounds amused. _

"_Blatantly obvious – just the fact you're making no effort to hide it shows a lack of attention to detail." And he's off, mind racing at full speed. "Your coat hasn't been washed in at least a week – the sleeves are fraying and the hem is coated in mud. Your perfume is the brand that can only be purchased at the £1 shop in Piccadilly Circus, and you clearly haven't slept in days."_

_There's only a short silence before Adler retorts with, "Am I that transparent?" _

_Sherlock scoffs. "Perhaps not, but the skin under your eyes is. Dark, and I hope I won't offend you if I point out the creases…"_

"_I'm not that easily offended, Mr Holmes," croons Adler, leaning forward. "I've learnt not to be."_

"_And I suppose there is a specific reason why, just as there is a reason for your visit today," Sherlock assumes, sounding bored. "Which, by the way, is not greatly appreciated."_

_Adler makes a sound similar to the one she programmed as Sherlock's ringtone. "My business isn't what it used to be," she says. _

_If I wasn't asleep, I'd grin at Sherlock's sarcastic tone when he says, "I do wonder why." _

"_Mock me all you want, Mr Holmes, but I have other means of making money and believe me, I will do whatever it takes." There's a cold edge to Adler's voice now, however it is lifted completely when she adds, "I see you and John are just fine."_

_To my absolute horror, I feel a hand reach out and brush my cheek. "He is pretty, for an older man."_

"_John isn't older than me," Sherlock says, with a frown. "Not by that much."_

_Adler takes her hand away abruptly and stands up. "He's damaged, Mr Holmes. Broken. He's been burnt before – he's had the heart burnt out of him." _

_Sherlock stands there glowering at her for a measurable few moments, then clears his throat and points towards the door with his violin bow. "I would tell you it's been a pleasure, but it honestly hasn't." _

_Adler sets her jaw. "You need me, Sherlock," she says, her voice eerily calm. "You need to get me while you still can." Then she strides up to Sherlock, kisses him on the cheek, and sashays out of the door. _

_It slams, and I wake up with a gasp. _

"John?"

I look around. Sherlock is standing by the window, just like in my dream. And even though I know for sure I fell asleep in my bed last night, I'm now lying on the sofa with a throw pulled over me.

"Where is she?" I mutter. Then, louder, "What am I doing here?"

Sherlock leans against the arm of a chair and folds his arms. "Oh, Mrs Hudson wanted to change the sheets, so I just…carried you out here."

Strangely, the only thing I can think of to say is, "I thought she isn't our housekeeper."

From downstairs, Mrs Hudson's voice calls up to us. "I'm not!"

Sherlock smirks.

I sit up and rub sleep out of my eyes. "Where is she?" I ask again, this time loud enough for him to hear. "Where did she go?"

Sherlock frowns, no longer amused. "Who?" he asks.

I'm confused, until I realise I'd been dreaming.

Sherlock seems to catch on to this, too, since he detaches himself from the armchair and comes to sit next to me on the sofa. He slides an arm around my shoulders and I lay my head on his shoulder.

"You had a dream," he says, his lips moving against my hair.

I nod.

"What about?" Sherlock asks. "Or…who about?"

I swallow hard. "It doesn't matter," I say. "Got any tea?"

He nods and stands up, making his way in to the kitchen and filling up the kettle from the tap. He sets it down on the stand and flips it on.

"So," he says. "What was the dream about?"

I don't know how I can avoid the question. I could lie, but it doesn't feel right, and besides – he would never fall for it.

"Irene Adler," I mumble, looking down at my lap and plucking a frayed edge of blanket. Frayed, like Adler's coat sleeves.

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"I was dreaming, wasn't I?" I ask, looking up at him as he stirs milk in to my teacup. "She wasn't really here?"

"Of course she wasn't," Sherlock says, sounding sour. "She wouldn't just hand herself over like that – she's far too smart."

I grimace when he says that. Something Adler said the first time we met her. _Smart is the new sexy._ I'm not smart, and in no way am I sexy. Adler: 1 – John Watson: 0.

"You dreamt about her," Sherlock continues. "What did she say?"

I scratch the back of my neck while I think – I've pulled a muscle there from sleeping on the sofa. "I can't remember much," I say. "Something about needing her while we can get her?"

Sherlock frowns. "Are you sure?"

I groan exasperatedly. "I don't know, Sherlock," I say. "Why is it even important?"

He looks on edge as he carries my tea back in to the living room and hands it to me with a tense grip. "I need information," he mutters to himself. "I need facts, solid facts."

I take a sip of tea and frown. "You think delving in to my nightmares is a good way to start?"

Sherlock drums his fingers on the table instead of answering.

"Dreams don't really happen, Sherlock," I say. I really hope I'm right, otherwise I've got a load of horrific Afghanistan war fantasies to deal with.

I hear someone sigh contentedly from the doorway.

"You were dreaming about me? Am I really that _impressionable_?"

I look up in shock.

**Suspense! So yeah, please please PLEASE review, and seriously consider entering the little story comp mentioned at the top there. **

**Amy xxx**


	27. Burn

**Ok. This is awful, but here goes: this is the second-to-last chapter of this whole story. The next chapter will be the end. And I know this one's short, but it has to be. I need it to end on a cliffhanger. Enjoy!**

There, standing in the doorway, is Moriarty.

You would have thought I'd be experienced at dealing with undead people. But truth be told, I'm not.

So naturally, my first reaction to seeing Moriarty was to jump up and spill my tea everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. Carpet, sofa, cushions, _crotch_. _Jeeesus_, that's painful.

Moriarty tilts his head to the side and pouts. "You made a mess," he lilts.

Sherlock's eyes are narrowed, and he moves to stand in front of me. No matter how bad the situation, I'll never stop appreciating how sweet it is when he's protective.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it, Virgin," says Moriarty, sticking his hands in his pockets and shrugging. "I'm not going to hurt him." Then, in a singsong voice, he adds, "I just came here to chat."

When he moves, Sherlock moves with him, turning so he's watching him as he walks to an armchair and sits down. The man looks perfectly at ease in our home – it's unsettling in ways I can't even describe.

"Why now?" Sherlock asks, keeping his eyes trained on him. "Why come now?"

Moriarty smiles. "I have a new employee," he trills. "A new worker-bee. And you two, as worker-bees yourselves, should be the first to meet her." Tilting his head back he calls, "Irene, darling!"

There's the sound of high heels clicking against the staircase, and then Adler's standing in the doorway.

It's safe to say she looks nothing like she did in my dream; the old muddy coat is replaced by a long white dress, and her nails are French manicured. Her makeup looks perfect and her hair is neatly held in place.

"Ah, Irene," Moriarty sighs. "You look stunning. Don't you think so, Sherlock? Doesn't your heart just burn at the sight of her?" There's a moment's pause before he gasps falsely and says, "Oh, but I forgot – you're not '_that way'_ anymore, are you, Virgin?"

Sherlock lifts his head up, defiant. "Whoever said I was?"

"It's all over your face," he croons. "Honestly, you boring man, this is primary school stuff. Pupils, dilated. Swallowing, forced. Hands, gripping the chair like it's about to _fly away_." He accompanies those last words with a wave of his hand.

Adler, still standing in the doorway, smirks. "Poor little John," she says. "Lost in the big bad world of the Holmes brothers."

Sherlock frowns. "Why are you here?"

Moriarty grins at me. "You're scared for him, aren't you, Johnny-boy?" He claps his hands in delight. "Oh, this is precious! You're so blindly in love, and now you're going to die together!" He sighs and his eyes come to rest on me, dark and malevolent.. "The perfect fairytale ending."

I swallow hard. "We're not going to die," I say, shaking my head. "You…you're not going to kill us."

"Aren't I?" Moriarty mocks looking confused. "Oh…that's strange…because I could have sworn that YOU ARE GOING TO DIE."

I have to admit, I jump a little at the sudden raise of his voice.

"You're unarmed," I say, floundering around inside my head for ways to stall him.

He rolls his eyes and pretends to yawn. "Your memory really is as poor as Sherlock says on his _'website'_," Moriarty comments, grimacing on the last word as if it's poison.

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"I don't like to get my hands dirty." He looks towards Adler, and nods ever so slightly.

In a blinding flash of diamonds and chiffon, she's darted forward and stabbed Sherlock's back with a long syringe. He arches off the sofa with a hiss, landing on the floor with his fists clenched.

"What is that?" I yell, dropping to my knees beside Sherlock. "What did you do to him?"

Adler smiles at the now empty syringe with a flash of her green eyes. "My own secret recipe," she says. "One that I can assure you has no cure, _Doctor_ Watson."

I glare at Moriarty. "What can I do?" I ask. "Come on, I know there's a way out of this. We both know the games you play – I can still save him." I set my jaw. "There's always an ultimatum."

Moriarty rolls his eyes. "Yes, and look how well that worked last time. I end up with an undead archenemy and his tearful flatmate to deal with, _once again_." He stands up and goes to the door. "There's no ultimatum this time, John Watson." From his pocket he takes out a little silver lighter, which he flicks open and tosses on to the sofa. "You can watch Sherlock burn."

Then he's gone.

**Please please PLEASE review! And check out my author's note at the top of the previous chapter to find out how you can help me continue writing Sherlock fanfiction. **

**Amy xxx**


	28. My Sherlock

**Ok. Be prepared. This is the LAST EVER CHAPTER of this story. I've tried my best with it, so please...just enjoy!**

There's nothing else I can do. I can't save him, and I can't leave him. So I stay kneeling on the floor, cradling Sherlock's head in my lap.

He seems to be drifting in and out of consciousness, his eyes fluttering open and closed drowsily.

"Sherlock," I say, my voice breaking unevenly. "Sherlock, please." It barely comes out as anything more than a whisper.

I don't care that Adler's just slipped out of the room. I don't care I'm about to burn down with the rest of 221B. All I can think about is Sherlock.

Sherlock coming back after the fall.

Sherlock wearing my jumper.

Sherlock holding my hand.

Sherlock kissing me.

Sherlock teaching me how to play violin.

Sherlock and I spending the night together.

Sherlock rescuing me from Mycroft's house.

_Sherlock dying in my arms. _

I figure I have very little time left with him, so I take a deep breath and stare down at the man who's singlehandedly brought me back to life over the time I've known him.

"Sherlock Holmes," I whisper. "Consulting Detective."

Through his haze, he manages to chuckle weakly. "Only one in the world."

I smile and nod, the first of many hot tears welling up and spilling over my cheeks. The next sound that comes out of me is a strangled laugh-sob. "Don't leave me, Sherlock."

He reaches up a shaking hand to brush away a teardrop from my face.

"Please," I beg. "Don't die. We can get you help – I can take you to hospital…"

He shakes his head, his drugged eyes sad.

"_Please, Sherlock_," I cry, leaning down and touching my forehead to his. It's overheated dramatically, but not sweating at all. _"Please, don't go."_

"He…um…he won't be like that for long."

I sniff, and look up. Through my teary blurred vision I can just make out a woman, a woman with hair that's a pleasant mousy-brown, and has nervous wide eyes. She's wearing white, but not the white dress that Adler had on. This is a white coat.

"It's…it's nothing too serious," she continues. "We use it in the hospital, for people who need really bad operations…"

I blink in disbelief.

There, standing in front of the sofa, is Molly Hooper.

She's wearing white rubber gloves and holding a syringe full of blood-red liquid in one of her small hands. She follows my gaze and says, "Oh," before handing it to me. It was The Woman's. I replaced it before she came in."

I blink again.

The door bursts open, and Lestrade strides in to the room. "What the _bloody_ hell happened in here?" he demands, taking in the singed sofa and spilt tea.

"Did you stop them?" asks Molly, eyes wide with curiosity and concern.

"Yeah, yeah," says Lestrade, nodding and pushing his coat back by placing his hands on his hips. "Moriarty's been shot – back of the neck by _Anderson_, would you believe it."

Molly coughs quietly and shudders. "And…The_ Woman?"_

Lestrade is still looking around. "She's been captured. We're holding her in Newgate until we can arrange a secure trial. She has a lot of strings she can pull to get out of this – we're taking the time to cut each one."

Molly nods, reassured.

All I can do is blink, and stare, and rub my eyes to clear away the last of the tears.

"How long?" I manage to ask.

"Not long," says Molly kindly. I can't express how glad I am to see her – she's such a different girl to Irene, it's refreshing. "Not long at all." She smiles at me.

Except she's not smiling at me.

She's smiling past me.

At the floor.

"What the…?"

I hold my breath, trying not to get too hopeful. I won't set myself up for disappointment, I won't…

"_Anderson_ shot Moriarty?" Sherlock groans and fluffs up his hair. "He'll never let me live this down."

With a choked laugh, I lunge at Sherlock and throw my arms around him, not caring how publicly awkward it makes the situation. He's my Sherlock, and he's alive.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God."

Sherlock holds me until my breathing has calmed down, his arms warm and safe around my back. I can feel his breath against my cheek, drying up whatever tears remained.

Molly, after giving the two of us a smile that says _'I'm happy for you'_, leaves us alone by exiting the flat and dragging Lestrade out with her.

"I was so scared," I whisper, clutching at Sherlock's jacket.

Sherlock's grip tightens. "Me too," he says. "I thought I was going to die."

Before either of us can say anything else, we've made the simultaneous decision to crash our lips together in an unbreakable kiss. He's alive and warm and breathing and safe, and he's mine.

"I love you, John," he murmurs against my mouth.

I have to fight back tears, of the happy sort this time. "I love you too, Sherlock."

He's mine. My Sherlock.

Just as I'm leaning back in for another kiss, Mrs Hudson opens the door and comes shuffling in to the room.

"Boys!" she gasps, taking in the wreck that's left of the living room. _"What have you done to my flat?"_

And neither of us can help erupting in to laughter.

Me and Sherlock. Sherlock and I.

My Sherlock.

**The end. I've enjoyed writing this story so much, it's actually upsetting me to watch it go. But this story has been told, and it's time to move on to another (I will move on, don't worry - I will write another Sherlock fanfiction soon.) Should I write a sort of sequel to this one, or another post-Reichenbach deal? I don't know. What I do know is that I've worked incredibly hard on this fanfic, and all my readers have been so supportive, so as one last act of kindness from you, I'd like a nice LONG review from you all. See you when I start my next Sherlock story! Goodbye, faithful readers!**

**Amy xxx**


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